Fresh 
Every 
Hour 


FRESH 
EVERY  HOUR 


^  »^^^ 


DETAILING  the  Adven- 
tures, Comic  and  Pathetic 
of  one  3immp  ;fllarttn,  Pur- 
veyor of  Publicity,  a  Young 
Gentleman  Possessing  Sublime 
Nerve,  Whimsical  Imagina- 
tion, Colossal  Impudence,  andr 
Withal,  the  Heart  of  a  Child. 

By  JOHN  PETER  TOOHEY 


BONI  AND  LIVERIGHT 
Publishers     ::     New  York 


FRESH  EVERY  HOUR 
COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 

BONI    &    LlVERIGHT,    INC. 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 

MY   MOTHER 


\ 


2083163 


Fresh 
Every 
Hour 


FRESH  EVERY  HOUR 


Chapter  One 

JIMMY  MARTIN'S  heart  persisted 
in  acting  like  the  well-known  eyes 
of  the  young  lady  in  the  song.  He 
just  couldn't  make  it  behave.  Up 
to  the  third  week  of  his  summer 
season  as  press  agent  at  Jollyland, 
the  big  summer  amusement  park 
near  New  York,  it  had  always  been  a  fairly  well- 
mannered  and  dependable  organ  which  performed 
its  physiological  functions  with  becoming  regularity 
and  which  was  not  accustomed  to  respond  to  any 
external  stimuli  with  anything  beyond  an  occasional 
slight  flutter.  To  be  sure  it  had  acted  up  a  little 
three  years  back  in  connection  with  a  certain  dark- 
eyed  beauty  who  presided  over  the  destinies  of  the 
cigar  counter  up  in  the  Grand  Hotel  in  New  Haven, 
but  that  had  only  been  a  slight  attack  and  it  had 
resumed  the  even  tenor  of  its  ways  after  a  brief 
interval  and  had  been  unobtrusively  going  through 
with  its  routine  activities  ever  since. 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

A  most  prepossessing  young  person  whose  parents 
had  inflicted  upon  her  the  name  of  Lolita  Murphy 
was  directly  responsible  for  the  alarming  symptoms 
already  hinted  at.  From  the  precise  moment  that 
Lolita  came  within  his  ken  Jimmy  ceased  to  be  a 
rational  being  in  full  control  of  his  faculties  and  his 
heart,  in  sympathetic  accord  with  the  agitated  con- 
dition of  its  owner,  began  to  put  on  an  antic  disposi- 
tion and  indulged  in  curious  palpitations  of  a  most 
annoying  nature  on  the  slightest  pretext.  The  usual 
provocation  at  first  was  the  sight  of  Lolita  herself, 
but  after  a  day  or  two  even  the  thought  of  her  pro- 
duced a  cardiac  ratiplan  that  would  have  done  credit 
to  the  trap  drummer  of  a  jazz  band. 

Lolita,  it  may  be  mentioned  in  passing,  lived  up 
to  all  the  implications  of  the  somewhat  picturesque 
cognomen  given  her  by  McClintock,  the  park  man- 
ager, when  Jimmy  first  pointed  her  out  to  his  su- 
perior. 

"She  sure  is  Miss  Lulu  Looker,"  McClintock  had 
remarked  emphatically. 

Lolita  was  all  of  that  and  a  little  more.  Jimmy 
was  not  a  poet  and  he  was  therefore  unable  to 
properly  voice  the  feelings  he  had  about  her  beauty. 
Had  he  been  one  he  might  have  justly  said  that  her 
cheeks  seemed  to  have  been  kissed  by  the  rosy 
flush  of  dawn ;  that  in  her  sable  eyes  there  lurked 
the  eternal  mystery  of  night  beneath  tropic  skies ; 
that  her  dark  hair  was  as  fragrant  as  the  spices  of 
Araby  and  that  her  lithe  figure  had  all  the  gracile 
curves  of  a  bounding  antelope.  As  it  was  he  con- 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

tented  himself  with  the  frequent  repetition  of  the 
decidedly  unpoetic  expression  "some  gal,"  but  this 
represented  to  him  all  the  ideas  noted  above  and 
a  liberal  assortment  of  others  equally  glamorous. 

Lolita  hailed  from  Cedar  Rapids,  la.,  and  ever 
since  the  memorable  occasion  when  Maude  Adams 
played  "Peter  Pan"  in  that  city  for  "one  night 
only"  she  had  cherished  a  great  and  overwhelm- 
ing ambition.  Her  father  ran  the  drug  store  next 
door  to  the  Opera  House  and  was  a  great  crony  of 
the  manager.  A  number  of  boys  and  girls  were 
picked  up  in  each  town  to  play  the  children  in  the 
Never  Never  Land  scene  and  Lolita's  fond  parent 
had  persuaded  the  manager  to  select  her  as  one  of 
the  group.  It  was  a  step  that  father  was  to  regret 
vainly  for  many  years,  but  on  the  night  of  her 
debut  he  was  blissfully  unconscious  of  the  possibil- 
ity of  any  bitter  repining  in  the  future  and  en- 
joyed the  proceedings  almost  as  much  as  Lolita  did. 

From  that  time  on  Lolita  felt  the  call  of  the 
footlights  and  became  convinced  that,  given  the 
proper  opportunities  for  the  externalization  of  the 
emotional  feelings  that  lay  dormant  within  her, 
she  was  destined  to  become  an  international  celeb- 
rity and  the  queen  regnant  of  the  English  speak- 
ing stage.  Chauncey  Olcott  came  to  town  a  few 
weeks  later  and  she  persuaded  father  to  work  her 
in  as  one  of  the  youngsters  to  whom  he  sang  a 
lullaby  in  a  high  tenor  voice  down  in  the  "glen" 
which  is  always  the  setting  for  the  third  act  of  an 
Irish  play.  After  that  there  was  no  holding  her. 
—  ii — , 


Fresh  Everv  Hour 

She  became  a  student  of  Miss  Amanda  Holliday's 
School  of  Dramatic  Expression  which  occupied 
three  rooms  on  the  second  floor  of  the  Turner  block 
on  Main  Street  and  she  participated  in  the  semi-an- 
nual entertainments  given  by  the  budding  geniuses 
who  were  under  the  tutelage  of  that  small  town 
preceptress  of  the  arts.  Versatility  was  her  middle 
name.  At  one  time  she  would  play  Ophelia  in  the 
mad  scene  from  "Hamlet"  and  appear  later  on  the 
program  in  a  Spanish  dance  with  castanets,  a  lace 
mantilla  and  all  the  other  necessary  properties.  Six 
months  later  she  would  combine  the  balcony  scene 
from  "Romeo  and  Juliet"  with  an  imitation  of  an 
imitation  of  Eddie  Foy  she  had  heard  given  by  a 
monologue  artist  at  the  Orpheum  Theatre.  At  the 
age  of  nineteen  she  was  the  town  wonder.  The 
dramatic  editor  of  the  Democrat-Chronicle  pre- 
dicted that  within  a  short  time  "this  talented 
daughter  of  our  esteemed  fellow  townsman  Henry 
P.  Murphy  seems  destined  to  occupy  one  of  the 
stellar  places  in  the  front  ranks  of  the  worth-while 
artists  of  our  fair  country." 

Lolita  moved  on  to  New  York  armed  with  a  let- 
ter of  commendation  from  Miss  Amanda  Holliday 
setting  forth  that  she  was  "worthy  of  any  role  no 
matter  what  its  importance"  and  urging  theatrical 
managers  "not  to  neglect  this  oportunity  of  ob- 
taining the  services  of  one  who  is  a  mistress  of  the 
mimetic  art  in  all  its  manifold  manifestations."  She 
also  carried  a  full  set  of  clippings  from  the  Demo- 
crat-Chronicle, one  half  of  her  male  parent's  at- 
—  12  — 


tenuated  account  in  the  First  National  Bank  and 
an  over-abundant  supply  of  cheery  optimism. 

The  metropolitan  managers'  office  boys  were  de- 
cidedly cold  to  the  advances  of  this  gifted  daugh- 
ter of  the  Middle  West.  They  treated  her  with 
that  air  of  careless  indifference  so  characteristic  of 
their  profession.  With  one  accord  all  the  big  and 
little  producers  decided  to  take  a  big  chance  and 
neglect  the  opportunity  which  fate  was  offering 
them.  They  were  unmoved  by  the  clippings  from 
the  Democrat-Chronicle  with  which  Lolita  bom- 
barded them  through  the  mails  and  they  were  cal- 
lous to  the  eulogistic  outpourings  of  Miss  Amanda 
Holliday,  copies  of  which  accompanied  each  written 
request  for  an  interview.  Lolita's  cash  reserve 
grew  perilously  low  and  disaster  threatened.  Then, 
on  a  morning  when  disillusionment  and  despair 
moved  in  and  took  lodgings  in  her  soul,  she  saw 
an  advertisement  in  a  newspaper  which  was  like  a 
life  buoy  tossed  to  a  drowning  man. 

"Ambitious  Young  Women  Wanted  for  Stage 
Work,"  it  read.  "Opportunity  Afforded  Ambitious 
Amateurs  to  Perfect  Themselves  in  Dramatic 
Technique — Apply  Immediately  at  Manager's  Of- 
fice, 'Jollyland.' " 

Lolita,  filled  with  high  hopes,  took  a  trolley  to 
the  great  playground  by  the  sea.  There  destiny 
handed  her  one  of  those  cold  douches  that  are 
sometimes  held  in  reserve  for  those  whose  am- 
bitions o'erleap  themselves.  The  dramatic  oppor- 

— 13  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

tunity  promised  in  the  advertisement  proved  to 
be  what  might  be  vulgarly  termed  a  "job." 

A  great  free  open-air  spectacle  was  in  process 
of  preparation  at  Jollyland  under  the  supervision 
of  a  famous  moving  picture  director  who  special- 
ized in  that  form  of  animated  art  technically  known 
as  "serials."  He  had  personally  conducted  a  gazelle- 
eyed  cinema  celebrity  known  as  June  Delight 
through  four  fifteen  reel  affairs  of  this  sort  in 
which  she  had  been  threatened  with  mayhem,  ag- 
gravated assault  and  battery,  felonious  wounding, 
andv  total  and  complete  annihilation  at  the  hands 
of  numerous  bands  of  cut-throats,  bandits,  thieves 
and  white  slavers.  In  the  course  of  these  proceed- 
ings she  had  performed  every  breath-catching  feat 
that  the  festive  imagination  of  the  director  had 
been  capable  of  conjuring  up  and  had  succeeded, 
by  a  miracle,  in  keeping  out  of  both  the  hospital 
and  the  obituary  columns  of  the  daily  press. 

Now  it  was  proposed  to  let  the  public  have  a 
close-up  view  of  this  death-defying  marvel  in  the 
flesh  in  the  act  of  performing  one  of  her  most 
famous  exploits  "before  your  very  eyes  and  for 
your  attention,"  as  the  circus  announcer  would  put 
it.  To  permit  of  this  the  director  had  evolved  some- 
thing which  he  called  a  "dramatic  spectacle"  and 
had  persuaded  the  management  of  Jollyland  to  ar- 
range for  its  production  in  a  huge,  specially  con- 
structed open-air  auditorium  as  a  "special  added 
attraction"  intended  to  put  a  final  quietus  on  the 
presumptious  efforts  of  a  rival  group  of  showmen 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

who  were  endeavoring  to  arouse  interest  in  a  new 
park  just  opened  that  summer. 

Lolita  found  herself  in  a  long  line  of  applicants, 
many  of  whom  were  pathetically  peaked  and  un- 
dernourished looking,  and  when  her  turn  came  to 
meet  the  director  she  made  up  her  mind  to  pocket 
her  pride  and  accept  whatever  fate  offered  rather 
than  run  the  risk  of  finding  herself  in  like  straits. 
Ambition  still  fired  her  soul  and  she  was  deter- 
mined not  to  return  to  the  little  old  home  town 
until  she  could  enter  it  in  something  at  least  closely 
akin  to  a  spirit  of  triumph.  To  be  sure  the  oppor- 
tunity offered  her  was  not  particularly  roseate.  It 
did  not  hold  forth  much  promise  of  either  pecuniary 
reward  or  even  of  passing  fame,  but  it  meant  that 
Lolita  would  not  have  to  telegraph  home  for  funds 
and  there  was  a  faint  glimmer  of  hope  in  a  remark 
made  by  the  director. 

"You  can  mingle  in  the  front  ranks  of  the 
crowd,"  he  said.  "We'll  pay  you  eighteen  a  week. 
There'll  only  be  two  shows  a  day."  Then  he  had 
looked  at  her  critically.  "You're  almost  a  ringer 
for  Miss  Delight,"  he  continued.  "Maybe,  if  you're 
a  good  little  girl  I  might  take  a  notion  to  try  you 
out  as  understudy." 

So  Lolita  Murphy,  the  pride  of  Cedar  Rapids,  be- 
came a  small  and  almost  infinitesimal  part  of  the 
great  out-door  spectacle  entitled  "Secret  Service 
Sallie"  which  was  the  big  sensation  of  the  Jolly- 
land  season. 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

In  the  role  of  an  agent  of  the  United  States  secret 
service  the  charming  and  fascinating  June  Delight 
was  swept  through  a  series  of  thrilling  adventures 
set  against  spectacular  backgrounds  depicting 
scenes  in  Berlin,  Tokio,  Rio  de  Janeiro  and  other 
world  capitals  and  as  a  culminating  feature  she 
was  pursued  to  the  roof  of  a  building  in  London 
by  a  howling  mob  which  suspected  her  of  being  a 
spy  in  the  employ  of  the  Central  Powers.  She  was 
saved  from  its  hands,  in  the  proverbial  nick  of 
time,  by  her  fiance,  dashing  Lieutenant  Thurston 
Turner,  Commander  of  the  U.  S.  Dirigible  N-24, 
who  happened  to  be  cruising  about  the  neighbor- 
hood at  the  moment  and  who  effected  a  rescue  by 
circling  his  ship  around  the  roof  and  deftly  lifting 
the  young  woman  into  the  shelter  of  the  gondola 
which  hung  from  the  great  gas  balloon  just  as  she 
was  about  to  be  beaten  to  death  by  the  infuriated 
crowd. 

Inasmuch  as  the  spectacle  was  given  in  the  open 
air,  it  was  possible  to  use  for  the  purposes  of  this 
scene  a  real  dirigible  which  was  manned  by  a  crew 
commanded  by  one  Bobby  Wilkins,  a  personable 
young  gentleman  from  Chicago  who  had  come  back 
from  France  with  a  major's  commission,  a  reputa- 
tion for  dare-deviltry  as  an  aviator  surpassed  by 
no  other  ace  in  the  American  service  and  a  collec- 
tion of  a  half  dozen  assorted  war  medals  bestowed 
by  three  grateful  nations.  Bobby  had  left  a  snug 
berth  as  "assistant  to  the  president"  of  a  big  varnish 
company  to  go  into  the  army,  the  said  president  be- 
-16- 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

ing  a  somewhat  indulgent  parent  who  had  san- 
guine expectations  concerning  his  son's  commer- 
cial and  industrial  future  and  who  was  even  now 
sending  him  daily  wires  to  the  Ritz  urging 
him  to  "cut  the  carabets  and  get  down  to  a  solid 
rock  foundation."  Father  labored  under  the  delu- 
sion that  Bobby  was  simply  vacationing  in  New 
York.  Had  he  had  an  inkling  of  just  what  his  son 
was  doing  he  would  have  (to  use  the  young  major's 
own  expression)  "tried  for  a  new  altitude  record 
himlself."  He  could  hardly  be  expected  to  know 
that  dictating  fool  business  letters  and  checking 
up  the  new  efficiency  expert's  monthly  report  of 
economies  effected  at  the  Dayton  plant  wouldn't 
exactly  appeal  any  more  to  an  adventuresome 
young  man  who  had  been  skyhooting  through  the 
upper  reaches  of  the  atmosphere  for  nearly  two 
years  and  dodging  German  machine  gun  bullets. 
Bobby  had  overheard  the  general  who  com- 
manded the  aviation  camp  at  which  he  was  demob- 
olized  remarking  about  a  request  made  by  the  mov- 
ing picture  director  that  he  recommend  some 
aviator*  for  the  task  of  piloting  the  dirigible  which 
was  to  play  such  an  important  role  in  the  spectacle 
and  he  had  offered  himself  for  the  sacrifice  just  as 
a  lark.  He  found  the  experience  rare  sport  and 
until  something  giving  greater  promise  of  adven- 
ture appeared  in  the  offing  he  was  determined  to 
go  on  with  it.  Twice  a  day  he  reached  down  and 
plucked  up  the  beautiful  Miss  Delight  as  lightly 
as  if  she  were  a  fragile  doll  while  the  assembled 
— —  17  — — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

thousands,  on  the  qui  vive  with  excitement,  burst 
into  rapturous  applause.  In  order  to  insure  the 
peace  of  mind  of  Robert  Wilkins,  Sr.,  Jimmy  Martin 
had  consented,  rather  reluctantly  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, to  respect  the  wishes  of  the  impersonator 
of  Lieut.  Thurston  Turner,  U.  S.  N.,  who  had  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  remain  incognito.  Otherwise 
the  consequences  might  have  been  lurid. 

Jimmy  itched  to  give  out  a  story  concerning  the 
social  and  business  connections  of  the  young  soldier* 
but  he  had  given  his  word,  and  being  an  ex-news- 
paper man,  that  was  sacred.  He  temporarily  forgot 
about  Bobby  and  devoted  his  spare  moments  to 
figuring  out  ways  and  means  for  the  sensational 
exploitation  of  Lolita  Murphy  to  whose  charms  he 
had  become  a  shackled  slave  from  the  moment  he 
first  glimpsed  her  at  rehearsal.  Lolita,  it  may  be 
mentioned  in  passing,  was  a  trifle  discouraged  at 
the  comparatively  slight  opportunities  for  uplifting 
and  otherwise  ennobling  the  American  stage  offered 
by  her  participation  in  "Secret  Service  Sallie."  Her 
name  wasn't  even  mentioned  on  the  program.  She 
figured  under  an  impersonal  heading  at  the  bot- 
tom, together  with  a  couple  of  hundred  other  young 
women  who  were  listed  as  "Berlin  citizens,  Japan- 
ese geisha  girls,  South  Americans,  Londoners, 
etc.,  etc." 

It  needed  all  the  soaring  optimism  of  Jimmy  to 

keep  her  from  slipping  into  a  nervous  decline.   The 

press  agent  had  obtained  an  introduction  through 

the  stage  director  and  his  sympathetic  interest  in 

— 18  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

her  temporarily  side-tracked  ambitions  had  won 
him  her  esteem  and  high  regard  from  the  begin- 
ning. Jimmy  was  a  rapid  worker  and  within  three 
days  from  the  time  of  their  first  meeting  he  had 
vowed  his  ardent  and  palpitating  devotion,  and 
while  Lolita  had  not  completely  committed  herself 
to  a  reciprocal  affirmation  she  had  succeeded,  never- 
theless, by  devious  and  subtle  devices  not  unknown 
to  her  sex,  in  conveying  the  distinct  impression  that 
the  star  of  hope  was  visible  in  the  eastern  sky. 

It  might  be  parenthetically  recorded  that  Jimmy 
was  accustomed  to  arriving  at  his  destination  when 
once  he  embarked  on  a  journey  He  had  been  kid- 
napped from  an  assistant  sporting  editor's  desk  on 
a  middle  western  paper  by  a  small  circus,  while  still 
young,  and  for  seven  years  he  had  been  touring 
these  United  States  ahead  of  an  infinite  variety  of 
attractions  ranging  all  the  way  from  Curran's 
Colossal  Carnival  company  (playing  state  fairs)  to 
the  more  or  less  splendiferous  "revues"  which  have 
their  origin  and  their  brief  span  of  popularity  along 
the  middle  reaches  of  Broadway. 

Being  more  familiar  with  the  batting  averages 
of  the  best  ten  players  in  the  American  League 
than  with  George  Henry  Lewes',  "The  Art  of  Act- 
ing," and  being  utterly  incapable  of  writing  a  didac- 
tic essay  on  "The  Psychology  of  Laughter1',  Jimmy 
had  never  been  cast  for  one  of  the  so-called  "kid- 
glove  jobs"  in  the' realm  of  theatrical  publicity,  that 
being  the  name  given  to  the  positions  held  by  the 
literati  who  seek  and  occasionally  obtain  publicity 
—  19  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

for  the  high-brow  drama.  He  was  not  of  the  chosen 
company  of  the  sleek  and  self-satisfied  elect.  Ele- 
gantly written  stories  and  gracefully  worded  little 
pieces,  supposedly  composed  by  charming  feminine 
stars,  meant  nothing  in  his  young  and  energetic  life. 
"Stunts"  were  what  he  specialized  in,  the  creation 
of  news  that  was  so  unusual,  so  bizarre,  so  full  of 
human  interest  that  the  newspapers  not  only  felt 
obliged  to  print  it,  but  usually  assigned  their  own 
reporters  to  write  it  up.  He  wasn't  dignified;  his 
conversation  reeked  with  slang  and  his  methods 
sometimes  offended  against  all  the  established 
canons  of  good  taste,  but  he  sometimes  landed  with 
one  foot  and  not  infrequently  with  both. 

His  summer  engagement  at  Jollyland  was  a  "fill- 
in"  between  seasons  and  when  he  entered  upon  it 
he  had  no  notion  that  it  would  shortly  become 
pregnant  with  possibilities  of  a  most  disturbing 
sort.  He  had  no  idea  that  he  would  presently  be 
directing  all  of  his  energies  to  assuaging  the  anx- 
ieties and  soothing  the  troubled  spirit  of  a  some- 
what forlorn  maiden  from  what  he  was  in  the  habit 
of.  scornfully  referring  to  as  a  "hick  town." 

There  came  a  night  when  Lolita's  disappointment 
was  past  all  bearing  and  when  she  sobbed  out  on 
Jimmy's  shoulders  a  bitter  protest  against  the  fate 
that  had  driven  her  into  believing  that  she  was 
destined  to  be  a  great  actress.  They  were  sitting 
on  the  beach  in  the  moonlight  after  the  show  and 
off  in  the  murky  distance  the  great  Sandy  Hook 
light  was1  blinking  like  some  monster  fire-fly. 
—  20  — 


Presh  Every  Hour 

"Jimmy,"  she  said,  half-chokingly.  "I  just  don't 
belong.  I  wish  I  was  back  in  Cedar  Rapids." 

"Gosh,  that's  an  awful  wish,  girlie,"  responded  the 
press  agent  with  a  foolish  attempt  at  a  pleasantry 
which  he  instantly  regretted. 

Lolita  drew  away  from  him  quickly. 
"Cedar  Rapids  is  all  right,"  she  retorted.  "It's 
better  than  this  lonesome  place."  She  lapsed  almost 
immediately  into  a  wistful  mood.  "It's  just  ten 
o'clock  there  now  and  the  movies  are  letting  out, 
and  there's  a  crowd  in  dad's  store  and  the  fellows 
are  treating  the  girls  to  sundaes  or  just  plain  ice 
cream  and  dad  is  fussing  around  and  maybe  help- 
ing out  himself.  I  want  to  go  back,  Jimmy,  I  want 
to  go  back." 

Jimmy  squeezed  her  hand  softly. 
"Listen,  girlie,"  he  said  comfortingly.    "I  know 
just  how  you  feel — the  cards  ain't  runnin'  right  and 
you  want  to  quit  the  game,  but  I'm  going  to  cut  in 
with  a  clean  deck  and  start  'a  new  deal.    I'm  goin' 
to  fix  things  so  that  when  you  do  go  back  for  a 
visit  to  the  little  old  home  town  and  dear  old  dad, 
the  Peerless  Silver  Cornet  band  is  goin'  to  be  down 
at  the  station  and  his  honor  the  mayor  is  goin'  to 
speak  'a  few  well  chosen  words  of  •welcome  in  the 
presence  of  a  cheering  crowd  of  friends  and  well- 
wishers.    Leave  it  to  me." 
Lolita  laughed  a  little  in  spite  of  her  mood. 
"You're  a  great  little  jollier,  Jimmy,"  she  said, 
"and  I'd  like  to  believe  you,  but  somehow  I  can't. 
I'm  a  nobody,  a  Cedar  Rapids"  nobody." 
—  21  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"But  you're  goin'  to  be  little  Miss  Lolita  Some- 
body of  the  well  known  world,"  he  responded  cheer- 
ily, "before  I  get  through  with  you.  I'm  goin'  to 
drop  you  right  into  the  direct  center  of  the  front 
page  of  every  paper  in  the  U.  S.  A.  from  the  New 
York  Gazette  to  the  Wyalusing,  Pa.,  Rocket. 
You're  goin'  to  make  those  two  chaps  with  the 
whiskers  on  the  cough  drop  boxes  and  that  fat 
old  colored  dame  in  the  pancake  flour  ads  look  like 
shrinkin'  violets  on  a  foggy  afternoon  when  I  finish 
up  with  you.  You  just  wait  and  see." 

"How  long  have  I  got  to  wait,  Jimmy,"  ven- 
tured Lolita  who  was  adrift  in  the  realms  of  fancy, 
carried  thence  by  the  soothing  cadences  of  Jimmy's 
voice. 

"Only  until  some  afternoon  when  this  June  De- 
light person  fails  to  show  up, — I  hear  she's  talkin' 
of  layin'  off  for  a  few  days.  If  you'll  promise  not 
to  even  talk  about  it  in  your  sleep  I'll  hand  you  a 
little  advance  information." 

Only  the  silent  stars  and  the  discreet  moon  shared 
Jimmy's  confidence  with  Lolita.  Its  general  tone 
and  tenor  lifted  that  despairing  daughter  of  the 
plains  out  of  the  rut  of  hopeless  striving  into  which 
she  felt  she  had  fallen  and  filled  her  with  such  an- 
ticipatory delight  that  when  she  said  good-bye  at 
the  door  of  her  boarding  house  she  impulsively 
reached  forward  and  kissed  him  full  on  the  mouth. 

"You're  a  darling/'  she  murmured. 

"I'll  take  an  encore  on  that,  girlie,"  he  replied. 

And  he  did. 

—  22  — 


Chapter  Two 

Miss  June  Delight  sumlmoned  Manager  McClin- 
tock  to  her  dressing  room  just  before  the  Saturday 
night  performance  and  successfully  simulated  the 
classic  symptoms  of  impending  nervous  prostration 
while  she  sniffed  at  a  vial  of  smelling  salts  and 
submitted  to  the  ministrations  of  a  tired  maid  who 
gently  massaged  her  forehead  with  her  finger-tips. 
Miss  Delight,  in  a  voice  that  was  barely  audible, 
informed  the  manager  that  she  could  not  possibly 
endure  the  trying  ordeal  of  further  performances 
after  that  evening  without  a  brief  period  of  rest 
and  that  she  was  leaving  for  a  week's  stay  at  a 
sanitarium  on  the  following  morning. 

McClintock  gave  voice  to  low  moans  and  flew 
other  signals  of  distress,  but  Miss  Delight  was  ob- 
durate to  his  more  or  less  frenzied  expostulations 
and  remarked  that  while  she  was  disturbed  at  hav- 
ing to  disappoint  her  "dear,  lovely,  friendly  public," 
she  felt  that  her  health  was  the  prime  considera- 
tion. The  manager  was  in  a  surly  mood  when  he 
left  her  to  seek  out  the  stage  director. 

"Who's  the  understudy?"  he  inquired. 

"She  calls  herself  Lolita  Murphy,''  replied  the 
director,  "but  I  understand  there's  a  certain  party 
connected  with  the  publicity  department  who  calls 
her  even  flossier  names  than  that." 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"Jimmy's  gal,  eh?"  commented  the  manager. 
"Well,  she's  there  with  the  looks  anyway.  Has 
she  had  a  rehearsal?" 

"She's  been  through  the  thing  roughly  with  the 
rest  of  the  understudies,  but  I  can  have  the  whole 
troupe  called  for  tomorrow  morning,  and  we  can 
run  straight  through.  We'll  get  out  the  dirigible 
and  go  through  with  the  rescue  stunt.  We  mustn't 
fall  down  on  that.  The  little  lady  seems  to  be  there 
with  the  nerve,  but  I'd  like  to  try  it  out." 

Jimmy  was  permitted  to  break  the  news  to  Lolita. 
He  met  her  after  the  performance  that  night  and 
imparted  the  glad  tidings.  When  he  left  he  gave 
her  a  final  word  of  caution. 

"Keep  the  little  old  nerve  up,  girlie,"  he  said 
earnestly,  "and  we'll  wake  up  the  whole  country 
on  Monday  morning." 

"I'll  try,  Jimmy,"  she  whispered.  "You're  just 
the — well,  just  the  dearest  boy  I've  ever  known.'' 

On  the  following  morning  Lolita,  athrill  with  ex- 
citement and  a  little  nervous,  assumed  the  title  role 
in  "Secret  Service  Sallie"  at  a  rehearsal  to  the 
complete  satisfaction  of  McClintock,  the  stage  di- 
rector and  Jimmy  Martin.  The  latter  watched  her 
with  adoring  eyes,  and  when  she  successfully  es- 
sayed the  sensational  rescue  scene  he  was  moved  to 
wild  and  clamorous  applause  which  sounded  a  bit 
startling  tin  the  great  empty  auditorium.  Under 
Bobby  Wilkin's  expert  direction  the  big  clumsy 
dirigible  was  manoeuvred  around  the  edge  of  the 
roof  and  Lolita  was  lifted  into  the  car  by  the  for- 
—  24  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

mer  ace  with  such  adroit  ease  that  the  whole  thing 
seemed  to  be  simply  part  of  a  casual  everyday  ocur- 
rence.  When  it  was  over  Lolita  had  been  safely 
landed  back  on  earth  and  had  received  the  congratu- 
lations of  everyone  concerned,  she  drew  Jimmy 
aside  and  clutched  at  his  arm  for  support. 

"I'm  ready  to  faint,"  she  said  weakly.  "I  believe 
I  would  have  up  on  the  roof  when  I  saw  that  big 
thing  coming  towards  me  if  that  fellow  hadn't 
grabbed  me  off  so  quickly." 

"You  need  a  little  nap,"  responded  Jimmy  sooth- 
ingly. "The  worst  is  over  and  the  best  is  yet  to 
come.  "Don't  forget  that  young  Mr.  Arthur  H. 
Opportunity  has  a  date  with  you  this  afternoon, 
and  that  the  big  splash  is  due  tomorrow  morning. 
Now  you  go  in  and  get  a  little  sleep  and  I'll  have  a 
talk  with  my  friend,  the  handsome  lieutenant.  I 
fixed  things  with  him  last  night,  but  I've  got  to  go 
over  some  details  again." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  press  agent  was  closeted 
with  Bobby  Wilkins  in  the  hangar  in  which  the 
dirigible  was  housed.  The  park  gates  had  just  been 
opened  for  the  day  and  crowds  of  holiday  merry- 
makers were  surging  through  them  in  quest  of  the 
fifty-seven  varieties  of  feverish  and  hectic  enter- 
tainment which  Jollyland  provided  for  those  in 
search  of  diversion. 

If  anyone  had  called  Jimmy  Martin  a  "psycho- 
therapist" he  would  have  denied  the  soft  impeach- 
ment promptly,  and  then  asked  for  a  dictionary  and 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

an  explanatory  blueprint.  And  yet,  as  a  direct  re- 
sult of  a  random  idea  which  had  bobbed  into  his 
active  mind  a  few  weeks  before,  he  was  uncon- 
sciously serving  in  that  capacity  for  a  large  and 
ever  increasing  throng  of  metropolitan  society 
women  of  varying  ages  who  flocked  to  Jollyland 
(in  search  of  a  new  thrill  which  he  had  provided. 
The  winding  up  of  war  charity  work  which  had 
followed  close  upon  the  return  to  these  shores  of 
the  larger  part  of  the  American  army  had  turned 
many  of  these  women  back  upon  their  own  re- 
sources and  their  innate  restless  activity,  which  had 
found  such  an  altruistic  outlet  in  new  channels  for 
several  years,  now  imperiously  demanded  fresh  ex- 
citement, and  it  was  this  that  Jimmy  offered  them. 

On  the  occasion  in  question,  Jimmy  had  over- 
heard a  coy  young  debutante  who  was  watching 
a  performance  of  "Secret  Service  Sallie"  remark 
to  a  group  of  friends  who  accompanied  her  that 
she'd  "just  love  to  go  up  on  the  stage  and  mix  with 
the  crowd.''  That  was  enough  for  the  press  agent. 
Ten  minutes  later,  during  the  intermission,  he  es- 
corted the  entire  party  behind  the  scenes,  and,  under 
his  guidance,  they  participated  in  the  London  epi- 
sode which  concluded  the  show.  They  mingled  with 
the  crowd  of  supernumeraries  and  entered  into  the 
proceedings  attendant  upon  the  thrilling  dirigible 
rescue  with  such  gusto  that  the  stage  manager 
gave  Jimmy  carte  blanche  to  encourage  the  idea. 

It  happened  that  in  this  particular  party  were 
several  of  the  socially  elect  and  the  papers  next 
—  26  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

morning  carried  extensive  stories  chronicling  the 
event  coupled  with  the  announcement  that  the  park 
management  would,  throughout  the  season,  be 
pleased  to  extend  the  privilege  of  participating  in 
the  entertainment  to  other  groups  who  might  wish 
to  take  advantage  of  the  opportunity  for  this  un- 
usual form  of  entertainment.  Society  seized  upon 
the  idea  voraciously  and  Jollyland  parties  gave  a 
new  filip  to  the  summer  season  at  all  the  Long 
Island  resorts.  Elderly  matrons  of  ample  girth  vied 
with  the  members  of  the  younger  set  in  setting  the 
pace  and  in  many  instances  came  again  and  again  to 
become  a  part  of  the  great  spectacle.  For  the  first 
time  in  its  history  Jollyland  began  to  figure  in  the 
society  columns  of  the  daily  press  and  great  was 
the  prestige  which  Jimmy  enjoyed  in  McClintock's 
eyes  as  a  result. 

The  particular  luminary  of  the  Long  Island  sea- 
son at  the  moment  and  the  prospective  lion  of  the 
month  of  August  at  Newport  was  none  other  than 
the  Hon.  Betty  Ashley,  daughter  of  the  second 
Lord  Norbourne,  and  the  most  talked  about  young 
woman  in  English  society  for  a  period  the  begin- 
nings of  which  antedated  the  war  by  several  years. 
Before  the  great  European  conflagration  the  Hon. 
Betty,  though  then  still  in  her  early  twenties,  was 
a  European  celebrity.  Spirited,  impulsive,  and 
headstrong  by  nature  she  had  early  rebelled  against 
the  ultra-conservative  traditions  of  her  family  and 
had  so  thoroughly  flouted  convention  that  her  name 
was  on  the  tip  of  the  tongue  of  everyone  in  the 

—  27  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

tight  little  island.  She  began  it  by  publicly  slap- 
ping the  face  of  a  certain  deposed  kinglet  who  had 
sought  refuge  and  a  safe  haven  in  England  and 
whose  sole  offense  had  been  a  mild  protestation  of 
love  made  at  a  fashionable  garden  party.  There 
had  followed  her  sensational  and  entirely  unar- 
ranged  presentation  of  a  petition  for  woman's  suf- 
frage to  England's  monarch  himself  at  a  formal 
court  (an  incident  which  sent  her  dignified  father 
to  his  bed  for  two  weeks) ;  her  arrest  on  suspicion 
of  being  implicated  in  a  militant  attempt  to  set 
fire  to  the  parliament  buildings  and  her  subsequent 
acquittal  after  she  had  refused  to  mlake  any  defense 
against  a  damaging  array  of  circumstantial  evi- 
dence ;  her  jilting  of  the  Earl  of  Maidsley  in  an  ex- 
planatory and  derisive  letter  to  the  Times ;  her  win- 
ning of  the  amateur  tennis  championship  and  a  host 
of  other  incidents  of  a  distinctly  unconventional 
nature.  Then  the  war  had  come  and  she  had  gone 
over  to  France  in  the  first  months  as  a  motor  driver 
and  had  still  managed  to  keep  in  the  public  eye  for 
five  years  despite  the  somewhat  considerable 
amount  of  attention  devoted  by  the  newspapers  to 
the  main  phases  of  the  great  struggle  itself.  She 
had,  for  one  thing,  won  a  D.  S.  O.  for  bravery  under 
fire  in  the  first  battle  of  Ypres  and  she  had,  for 
another,  been  reprimanded  in  orders  for  organizing 
a  ball  at  a  certain  chateau  occupied  by  the  staff  of 
a  certain  corps  during  the  absence  of  the  command- 
ing general  at  a  conference  at  G.  H.  Q. 
Now  she  had  come  to  the  United  States  for  the 
—  28  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

first  time  and  had  materially  assisted  in  putting  zest 
and  "punch"  into  a  round  of  festive  house  parties 
on  Long  Island  given  by  prominent  members  of 
the  swiftest  moving  coterie  of  the  so-called  smart 
set.  Small  wonder  that  when  she  heard  of  the  ex- 
peditions to  Jollyland  which  were  enjoying  such  a 
vogue  that  she  should  elect  to  organize  one  herself. 

"I'm  not  entirely  a  rank  amateur,  my  dear,"  she 
confided  to  her  hostess  when  the  party  was  prepar- 
ing to  depart.  "I  went  on  for  two  nights  running 
in  the  chorus  at  the  Alhambra  last  winter  on  a  five 
pound  wager,  and  I'd  have  stuck  it  out  for  a  whole 
week  for  the  fun  of  it  if  the  pater's  blood  pressure 
hadn't  been  running  abnormally  high.  The  old  dear 
would  have  gone  all  to  smash  if  he  had  found  out 
and  he  might  if  I'd  kept  on." 

The  Hon.  Betty,  her  dark  beauty  set  off  by  a 
rose-pink  silk  sweater  and  a  Tam  o'/Shanter  to 
match,  was  in  the  first  car  of  the  string  of  six 
which  disgorged  a  laughing  crowd  of  merry- 
makers in  front  of  Jollyland  on  Sunday  afternoon. 
They  made  for  the  big  arena  immediately  as  it  was 
within  a  few  minutes  of  the  advertised  time  for  the 
ringing  up  of  the  curtain  on  the  great  spectacle. 
The  Hon.  Betty  let  it  be  known  to  an  usher,  who 
was  duly  impressed  by  her  air  of  authority,  that 
she  craved  an  immediate  interview  with  the  man- 
ager. McClintock,  still  disturbed  at  the  defection 
of  the  capricious  Miss  Delight,  responded  begrudg- 
ingly ;  was  apprised  of  the  identity  and  mission  of 
the  distinguished  visitor  and  sought  out  Jimmy 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

Martin  in  great  excitement.  He  found  the  press 
agent  back  on  the  stage. 

"Say,  young  fellow,"  he  said  enthusiastically, 
"I've  got  a  Monday  morning  story  for  you  already 
made  and  ready  to  try  on.  This  Betty  Ashley 
Who's  been  grabbing  off  space  all  over  the  world 
for  a  long  time  and  who's  the  big  noise  with  the 
real  folks  over  here  this  summer,  is  out  in  front 
with  a  crowd  right  out  of  the  social  register,  and 
she  wants  to  go  on  in  the  London  scene.  I  told  her 
she  could.  Get  busy  now  and  prepare  for  a  general 
assault  on  the  helpless  press." 

Jimmy  received  this  intelligence  with  a  glum- 
ness  that  rather  annoyed  McClintock. 

"What  did  she  want  to  pick  out  today  for?"  he 
inquired  uneasily. 

"What's  the  matter  with  today?  It's  the  best 
day  possible  for  a  good  break  for  us.  The  papers 
are  always  glad  of  anything  that  makes  a  noise  like 
a  story  on  Sunday.  What's  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  nothin',  replied  Jimmy  absent-mindedly, 
"only  I  wish  she'd  waited  until  the  middle  of  the 
week.  I  was  kinda  figurin'  on — oh,  never  mind, 
it'll  be  all  right." 


50  — 


Chapter  Three 

An  acute  observer  would  have  detected  signs  Oi 
suppressed  excitement  in  the  general  demeanor  of 
Jimmy  Martin  during  the  progress  of  the  early 
scenes  of  the  great  spectacle  in  which  Lolita  Mur- 
phy was  essaying  the  leading  role  for  the! first  time 
on  any  stage.  He  had  exchanged  his  customary 
cigarette  for  the  solace  of  a  particularly  formidable 
looking  cigar  which  he  puffed  at  nervously  as  he 
sat  in  the  manager's  box  with  his  cap  pulled  down 
over  his  eyes.  His  whole  body  was  tense  and  rigid 
and  though  there  was  a  look  of  adoration  in  his 
eyes  there  was  something  more — a  vague  some- 
thing that  seemed  to  spell  apprehension. 

Justice  compels  the  admission  that  Lolita  was 
doing  Cedar  Rapids  proud.  She  moved  through 
the  thrilling  situations  of  "Secret  Service  Sallie" 
with  the  ease  and  calm  assurance  of  a  veteran  and 
more  than  merited  the  applause  which  the  vast 
holiday  audience  showered  on  her.  When  the  cur- 
tain rose  on  the  final  scene — the  one  depicting  the 
streets  of  London — the  audience,  keyed  up  to  ex- 
pectant excitement  by  the  gaudy  promises  of  the 
program — held  its  collective  breath  and  Jimmy  sunk 
his  teeth  viciously  into  what  remained  of  his  cigar. 
McClintock  slid  into  the  seat  alongside  of  him. 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"That  gal  of  yours  is  sure  making  good,"  he 
remarked  good-naturedly.  "If  she  goes  through  to 
the  finish  as  nicely  she'll  find  a  surprise  in  her  enve- 
lope on  Saturday  night.  There's  that  English  so- 
ciety dame  and  her  party  strolling  along  just  as 
if  they  were  back  in  dear  old  London.  I  had  Law- 
rence, the  assistant  stage  manager,  go  on  with  'em 
to  put  'em  wise  to  all  the  business." 

The  mimic  street  on  the  stage  was  thronged 
with  a  motley  crowd  of  supernumeraries  who  were 
supposed  to  represent  the  populace  of  the  British 
metropolis  out  for  an  airing  on  a  .bank  holiday. 
The  rose-pink  sweater  of  the  Hon.  Ashley  was  the 
most  conspicuous  object  in  view.  That  patrician 
ladv  bobbed  in  and  out  among  the  others,  appar- 
ently having  the  time  of  her  life  and  urging  her 
friends,  with  violent  pantomime,  to  enter  into  the 
festivities  with  something  akin  to  her  own  en- 
thusiasm. 

Presently  the  audience  hear  a  murmur  pass 
through  the  crowd  on  the  stage  an  Jimmy's  acute 
ear  detected  the  muffled  purr  of  the  motor  on  the 
dirigible  which  was,  at  that  moment,  manoeuvering 
for  position  and  awaiting  its  cue  two  hundred  feet 
in  the  air  just  behind  the  backs  of  the  last  row  of 
spectators.  The  press  agent  grabbed  the  railing 
in  front  of  him  and  leaned  eagerly  forward.  He 
was  watching  the  right  side  of  the  stage. 

A  motor  car  shot  out  of  the  win^s  through  a 
lane  in  the  crowd.  In  it  sat  Lolita  Murphv  in  the 
role  of  queen  of  the  American  secret  service!  It 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

was  plain  that  she  was  simulating  great  anxiety  arid 
that  she  was  being  followed,  bhe  looked  apprehen- 
sively over  her  shoulder  and  the  audience  could 
catch  excited  shouts  of  "stop  her,  stop  her."  A 
gigantic  bobby  stepped  directly  in  the  path  ahead  of 
the  car  and  drew  his  revolver.  The  chauffeur  pulled 
a  lever  and  the  car  stopped  abruptly.  A  man  on  a 
motor-cycle  came  dashing  up. 

"Arrest  her,"  he  shouted  and  he  sprang  from  the 
sadd'e.  "She's  a  German  spy  from  the  Wilhelm- 
strasse." 

Lolita  looked  about  furtively,  poised  herself  for 
just  a  moment  and  then  leaped  out  of  the  car, 
overturning  an  athletic  super  and  making  for  a 
doorwav  as  trie  crowd  brake  into  frenzied  cries  of 
"kill  her,  kill  her.'*  The  incident  had  been  re- 
hearsed with  the  utmost  regard  for  actualitv  and 
as  the  mob  surfer!  after  trie  suspected  spy  the  vast 
throner  of  spectators  swaved  with  excitement  like 
a  field  of  tall  prass  in  a  breeze.  Lolita  reached  the 
^afety  of  the  doorwav  bv  almost  trie  fract'on  of  an 
inch  and  disappeared.  The  crowd  poured  in  after 
her  and  McClintock  caught  Jimmy's  arm  as  he  de- 
tected a  vanishing  flash  of  rose-pink. 

"Damned  if  that  Ensrlifh  dame  isn't  right  in  at 
the  death,"  he  said  excitedly.  "She's  going  up  on 
the  roof." 

Jimmy  didn't  reply.  He  was  watching  the  top  of 
the  make-believe  buildiner  with  eyes  that  were 
strained  and  staring.  As  Lolita  emerged  from  the 
hatchway  and  plunged  forward,  with  a  fine  gesture 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

of  despair,  he  looked  back  over  his  shoulder  for  a 
moment  and  noted  that  the  N-24  was  slowly  swing- 
ing forward  and  that  the  alert  and  eager  face  of 
Bobby  Wilkins  was  visible  over  the  edge  of  the  car 
which  hung  from  the  rear  of  the  big  balloon. 

Lolita  held  out  appealing  hands  and  gave  voice 
to  cries  for  assistance.  The  crowd,  in  the  vanguard 
of  which  was  a  lady  in  a  rose-pink  sweater  with 
cheeks  that  were  flaming  and  with  eyes  that  were 
dancing,  swarmed  up  through  the  opening  and  sur- 
rounded the  suspected  spy.  The  supernumeraries' 
voices  became  a  blended  babble  of  inarticulate  cries 
and  3467  spectators  watched  the  developments  in 
a  tense  silence. 

Nearer  and  nearer  swung  the  great  dirigible. 
Lolita  was  now  in  the  hands  of  the  mob  with  which 
she  struggled  fiercely.  As  the  N-24  swung  around 
the  corner  of  the  roof  she  turned  as  per  instructions, 
but  Jimmy  noticed  with  a  gasp  of  concern  that  she 
had  turned  in  the  wrong  direction  and  that  she  was 
making  her  way  to  the  wrong  side.  She  was  evi- 
dently bewildered.  Bobby  Wilkins  was  leaning  out 
of  the  car  with  his  arms  outstretched  and  was  be- 
seeching her  to  run  toward  the  other  side  of  the 
roof.  In  another  five  seconds  the  dirigible  would 
have  passed  on  and  the  spectacular  finish  of  the 
bier  show  would  be  ruined.  McClintock  swore 
softly.  Jimmy  sat  as  one  entranced. 

Some  of  the  supers  were  pushing  Lolita  to  the 
other  side,  but  she  seemed  to  be  in  a  panic  and 
struggled  with  them  as  if  still  acting  the  earlier 

34 


scene.  At  this  juncture  Jimmy  noticed  that  a  lady 
in  a  rose-pink  sweater  had  run  to  the  edge  of  the 
roof  just  above  which  the  dirigible  was  moving, 
and  that  she  was  holding  up  her  arms.  His  cigar 
dropped  from  his  mouth  a  second  later  when  he 
saw  Bobby  Wilkins  grab  her  outstretched  hands, 
swing  her  free  of  the  roof  and  pull  her  into  the 
car  as  the  great  dirigible  finally  cleared  the  stage 
setting  and,  in  quick  response  to  the  hand  of  the 
pilot  in  the  front  car,  nosed  her  way  upward  at  a 
higher  rate  of  speed.  The  curtain  fell  and  the  re- 
pressed excitement  of  the  great  audience  found  vent 
in  tumultuous  applause.  The  thing  had  happened  so 
quickly  that  there  were  apparently  few  who  had 
noticed  that  the  wrong  young  woman  had  been 
saved  from  certain  death  by  the  timely  arrival  of 
Lieut.  Thurston  Turner,  U.  S.  N. 

"My  God,  what  a  whale  of  a  story,"  chortled 
McClintock,  gripping  Jimmy's  arm  so  fiercely  that 
the  press  agent  winced  with  pain. 

"Yes,  isn't  it?",  responded  Jimmy  dreamily  as  he 
watched  the  N-24  winging  her  way  over  the  park 
and  out  towards  the  sea.  The  spectators  had  risen 
from  itheir  seats  and  were  applauding  again  as  a  big 
American  flag  was  unfurled  from  the  rear  car  of 
the  dirigible. 

The  balloon  kept  on  its  way  toward  ffie  ocean 
and  McClintock  noticed  that  it  didn't  make  the  turn 
it  usually  did  when  it  reached  the  giant  roller 
coaster  that  ran  along  the  shore.  A  puzzled  ex- 
pression came  over  his  face.  If  he  had  looked  at 

—  55  — 


Jinimy  sharply  just  then  he  would  have  observed 
the  first  beginnings  of  a  pleased  smile  tilting  the 
corners  of  the  press  agent's  mouth.  A  minute 
passed  and  the  great  yellow  gas  bag  receded  farther 
and  farther  in  the  distance.  McClintock  stepped 
down  and  borrowed  a  field  glass  from  a  spectator. 
He  glued  his  eyes  to  it  for  a  few  moments  and 
then  dropped  his  arms.  His  face  was  pale. 

"His  motor's  dead,"  he  said  weakly,  "and  he's 
drifting1  out  to  sea.  The  propellor's  stopped  and 
he's  being  carried  out  by  this  land  breeze.  We've 
^ot  to  do  something — we've  got  to  get  help  of  some 
kind." 

The  manager  was  plainly  worried.  He  pressed 
the  glass  on  Jimmy,  who  had  followed  him  out  of 
the  box,  and  the  latter  watched  the  clumsy  balloon, 
now  a?  the  mercy  of  the  stiff  breeze  which  had 
blown  up,  slowly  but  surely  disappearing  in  the 
ooalescent  haze  which  hung  above  the  line  where 
sky  and  ocean  seemed  'to  meet.  The  owner  of  the 
glasses  had  overheard  McClintock's  remark  and  had 
passed  the  word  to  his  neighbor.  In  two  minutes 
thei  news  had  spread  through  the  great  crowd  and 
thousands  of  eyes  were  focused  on  the  drifting 
speck  which  presently  vanished. 

McClintock,  pushing  Jimmy  before  him,  started 
for  the  main  office  and  found  him'self  surrounded 
by  an  excited  group  of  men  and  women.  An  up- 
standing chap  in  a  British  major's  uniform  who 
•""•ore  a  cap  on  which  was  the  red  velvet  band  of 
a  staff  officer,  stepped  forward. 
—  36  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"We're  Miss  Ashley's  friends,"  he  said,  with  a 
touch  of  feeling  in  his  voice,  "and  we'll  do  every- 
thing we  can  to  assist  you.  She's  a  bit  untamed, 
sir,  and  she  shouldn't  have  done  that  wild,  foolish 
thing,  but  she's  the  best  woman  alive  for  all  of 
that  and  now  that  she's  in  danger  we're  going  to 
help  you  see  her  out  of  it.  Has  that  dirigible  got  a 
wireless  on  board?" 

"No,'f  replied  the  manager.  "There  wasn't  any 
need  for  one.  Since  it's  been  here  it's  never  been 
more  than  a  mile  or  two  away  from  the  hangar 
before." 

"That's  bad — damned  bad,"  responded  the  officer. 
"Of  course,  mavbe  they'll  be  able  to  fix  the  engine 
but  we  can't  take  chances  on  that.  If  you'll  let 
me  use  your  telephone  I'll  call  up  our  embassy  in 
Washington  and  get  them  to  get  in  touch  with  the 
Navy  Department.  We'll  have  all  the  ships  in  range 
of  trie  Arlington  station  on  the  lookout  in  an  hour.'* 

The  thoroughly  sobered  group  of  pleasure  seekers 
who  had  accompanied  the  Hon.  Betty  to  Jollvland 
two  hours  before,  followed  McClintock  and  Jimmy 
Martin  into  the  offices  in  the  administration  build- 
ing and  talked  in  low  voices  while  the  major  began 
to  fuss  in  the  telephone  booth  witH1  tne  long  distance 
operator.  Some  of  the  women  were  weeping-. 


Chapter  Four 

In  the  seclusion  of  his  private  office  Jimmy  tele- 
phoned the  Associated  Press,  the  police  and  the 
nearest  United  States  life  saving  station,  in  the 
order  named,  while  McClintock,  who  was  plainly 
tremendously  worried,  paced  restlessly  up  and  down 
the  floor,  pausing-  occasionally  to  glance  out  of  the 
window  at  the  broad  expanse  of  sky  and  sea  in  the 
vain  hope  that  some  sight  of  the  lost  dirigible 
might  greet  his  eye.  Just  as  Jimmy  began  calling 
up  the  metropolitan  newspaper  offices  in  a  fine 
frenzy  of  excitement,  both  men  heard  the  office 
door  slam  violently.  They  turned  in  unison  and 
found  themselves  confronted  by  Lolita  Murphy. 
Gone  was  the  shy  manner,  the  demure  smile  and 
the  air  of  coy  ingenuousness.  Her  cheeks  were 
flushed,  her  eyes  were  blazing  and  her  whole  man- 
ner indicated  that  she  was  in  what  is  generally  re- 
ferred to  as  a  "state  of  mind." 

"Hello,  girlie,"  Jimmy  called  out  pleasantly, 
"what's  the  matter?" 

"Don't  you  dare  girlie  me,  Mr.  James  T.  Martin," 
retorted  Lolita  in  a  voice  that  she  was  palpably 
trying,  with  a  great  effort,  to  keep  at  an  even  and 
menacing  tone.  "Don't  you  dare  to  speak  to  me 
again.  I  camie  in  to  tell  you  that  and  to  let  you 
-38- 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

know  that  even  if  I  do  come  from  Cedar  Rapids 
I  can't  be  fooled  by  any  New  York — by  any  New 
York — bunco  man.'' 

EDer  voice  broke  on  the  last  word  and  tears  came 
into  her  eyes  despite  the  struggle  she  was  making 
to  hold  herself  in  hand.  Jimmy  came  toward  her, 
but  she  waved  him  off  hysterically.  McClintock 
watched  the  proceedings  in  amazement. 

"What's  the  idea,  Lolita?", -began  the  press  agent 
beseechingly.  "I  don't  get  you.  I  don't  under- 
stand." 

"Don't  try  to  tell  me  that,"  ran  on  Lolita,  who 
was  now  half  sobbing.  "Don't  try  to  tell  me  that 
you  didn't  turn  me  down  when  that  English  girl 
came  into  the  park  with  all  those  society  people 
and  that  you  didn't  get  together  with  that  Wilkins 
fellow  to  have  me  left  there  so  you  could  get  a 
better  story  out  of  it  with  her.  You  fixed  it  all  up 
and  you  can't  tell  me  that  you  didn't  because  I  just 
know,  that's  all.  I  had  a  sweater  on  under  my 
dress  so's  I  wouldn't  catch  cold,  and  I  had  milk 
chocolate  in  my  pocket  and  I'd  written  home  to 
mother  about  it's  going  to  happen  and  telling  her 
not  to  worry  about  anything  she  might  read  in  the 
papers  the  first  day,  and  now  nothing's  happened 
at  all  to  me  and  I've  been  made  a  fool  of  and  it's 
all  your  fault  if  you  ever  try  to  come  near  me  again 
or  speak  to  me  I'll  slap  your  face,  Mr.  James  T. 
Martin,  I'll  slap  your  face.  Do  you  hear  me,  Mr. 
James  T.  Martin? — I'll  slap  your  fresh  little  face." 

She  was  gone  before  Jimmy  could  remonstrate. 

—  39  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

The  door  closed  behind  her  with  a  more  reverberat- 
ing bang  than  the  one  which  had  heralded  her  en- 
trance. Jimmy  dropped  into  the  nearest  chair  and 
gazed  vacantly  into  space.  McClintock  shook  him 
roughly  by  the  shoulder. 

"Say,"  he  shouted.  "What  in  hell  is  this  all 
about?" 

"She  handed  me  the  mitt,  Mac — she's  handed 
me  the  mitt,  and  she  wouldn't  even  let  me  explain," 
responded  Jimmy  brokenly.  "It's  the  real  heart- 
throb stuff  this  time,  Mac,  the  real  heart-throb 
stuff.  I  had  everything  framed  up  for  her  and  this 
English  jane  just  drops  in  like  a  joker  runnin' 
wild  and  wins  the  hand." 

"You  had  what  framed?" 

"Why — this  drifting  out  to  sea  stunt,"  replied 
Jimmy  in  a  dead  voice. 

"This  drifting  out  to  sea — you  don't — you  can't 
mean  that  this  thing  is  a  plant,"  gasped  the  man- 
ager incredulously. 

"Of  course  it  is,''  returned  the  press  agent  with 
something  of  the  old  note  of  self-assertiveness  in 
his  voice.  "I  had  it  all  fixed  up  for  Lolita,  and  now 
this  society  dame  is  goin'  to  get  away  with  all  the 
head-lines.  When  I  saw  Wilkins  pull  her  into  the 
car  I  didn't  think  he'd  go  all  the  way  through,  but 
it  looks  as  if  he's  decided  to.  There's  no  use  in 
worryin'  about  it.  Every  little  thing  is  comin'  out 
all  right — and  say — don't  forget  to  remember  that 
it's  goin'  to  be  some  story  now — some  story.'' 

—  40  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"Just  let  me  get  this  big  idea  through  my  head," 
persisted  McClintock.  "What  happens  next?" 

"Of  course  his  motor  hasn't  really  gone  dead," 
replied  Jimmy.  "He's  just  ordered  his  engineer  to 
shut  it  off  so  they  can  drift  with  the  wind.  That 
was  all  framed  up  between  us.  He'll  probably  turn 
on  the  gas  again  and  cruise  around  out  of  sight  of 
land  for  a  couple  of  hours  and  shut  off  his  engine 
every  time  he  sees  a  ship  comin'  in  sight.  That'll 
be  an  alibi  for  the  story.  When  the  little  old  sun 
starts  to  sink  in  the  west  he'll  turn  that  gas 'bag 
towards  the  Jersey  coast  and  he'll  make  a  landing 
just  before  dark  at  a  place  we  picked  out  yesterday 
morning.  He's  going  to  lay  under  cover  there,  and 
we'll  keep  the  country  guessin'  all  day  tomorrow." 

"But  someone  will  see  him  land,"  criticized  the 
rrianager. 

"I  don't  think  there's  a  chance  of  that,"  replied 
Jimmy  jauntily.  "We  picked  out  a  spot  that's  as 
lonesome  lookin'  as  an  iceberg.  There  isn't  a  house 
within  two  miles,  and  there's  nothin'  but  marsh- 
land all  around.  There's  one  little  place  right  in 
the  center  that's  high  and  dry.  That's  where  he 
lands.  Wilkins  has  got  his  car  planted  a  couple  of 
miles  away  and  his  chauffeur  is  goin'  to  be  right  on 
the  job  in  a  row-boat — you  see  there's  a  little  creek 
that  runs  through  the  swamp — and  the  girl  is  goin' 
to  be  taken  away  in  the  boat  and  slipped  away  to 
a  hotel — that  is,  Lolita  was  goin'  to  be  slipped  away 
and  was  goin'  to  keep  dark  until  she  got  the  signal 
to  appear  again.  Maybe  this  society  queen'll  be 
—  41  — 


Fresh   "Every  Hour 

game  enough  to  go  through  with  it  just  for  the  fun 
of  the  thing." 

"We  were  goin'  to  keep  the  agony  up  until  to- 
morrow night  at  the  earliest  and  maybe  until  the 
day  after  tomorrow.  Then  Wilkins  was  goin'  to 
telephone  that  he'd  just  landed  after  bein'  tossed 
about  in  the  air  and  all  that,  and  Lolita  was  goin' 
to  have  a  nervous  collapse  and  be  interviewed  in 
bed  by  a  flock  of  reporters  with  a  couple  of  trained 
nurses  and  three  doctors  hoverin'  around  in  the 
offing.  You  can  fill  in  the  other  details  yourself. 
Anyhow,  it's  a  grand  little  notion  for  a  story  even 
if  this  Betty  Ashley  person  doesn't  come  through. 
We'll  know  about  that  tonight." 

"How  so?" 

"Why,  the  chauffeur  has  instructions  to  telephone 
me  the  minute  he  gets  to  the  hotel.  That  ought  to 
be  not  later  than  nine-thirty." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  all  about  this  before- 
hand?" 

Jimmy  smiled  a  bit  guiltily  before  replying. 

"I  had  a  hunch  that  mjaybe  you'd  put  the  kibosh 
on  the  whole  scheme  because  I  was  featurin'  a 
certain  party  too  much,"  he  responded.  He  grew 
serious  again  for  a  minute  and  a  far-away  look 
crept  into  his  eyes.  "Say,  Mac,"  he  went  on,  "I 
had  a  number  that  called  for  the  grand  prize,  and 
I've  lost  the  ticket.  It's  rotten  luck.  From  the 
way  she  spoke  a  few  minutes  ago  I'll  bet  I  don't 
ever  get  out  again,  not  even  on  probation." 

"That's  be  all  right,"  consoled  McClintock.  "I'll 
—  42  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

fix  that  part  of  it  for  you.  It's  a  great  story  even 
if  the  Hon.  Betty  Ashley  doesn't  go  through  and 
if  she  does — why,  if  she  does,  it'll  be  the  biggest 
thing  ever  pulled  off  in  this  country.  Think  of  that 
for  a  little  while." 

The  Associated  Press  and  the  metropolitan  news- 
papers were  inclined  to  be  a  bit  skeptical  of  the 
facts  which  Jimmy  telephoned  them  at  the  outset, 
but  outside  confirmation  was  forthcoming  promptly 
and  within  two  hours  after  Major  Bobby  Wilkins 
and  Hon.  Betty  Ashley  had  disappeared  in  the  gen- 
eral direction  of  the  open  sea  the  story  was  the 
sensation  of  the  summer  in  journalistic  circles. 

A  squad  of  picked  feature  writers  invaded  Jolly- 
land  in  quest  of  detailed  particulars  concerning  the 
events  leading  up  to  the  beginning  of  the  ill-fated 
balloon  trip ;  seven  sob  sisters  motored  to  the  pala- 
tial home  at  which  the  Hon.  Betty  was  a  house 
guest  and  interviewed  a  weeping  and  distraught 
maiden  aunt  of  that  lady  who  had  been  acting  as  a 
submissive  chaperone,  and  who  was  certain  that 
when  "dear  Ned,  her  father,  hears  the  news  he'll 
froth  at  the  mouth  and  have  a  stroke ;"  cables  were 
frantically  dispatched  to  London  instructing  corre- 
spondents to  break  the  news  to  "dear  Ned"  and 
watch  the  results ;  city  editors  pawed  over  assort- 
ments of  photographs  of  the  beautiful  heroine  and 
conferred  with  art  department  heads  as  to  the  most 
suitable  ones  to  use  for  decorative  lay-outs ;  dozens 
of  "leg-men''  were  sent  out  to  points  along  the 
Jersey  and  Long  Island  coasts  with  directions  to 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

watch  for  any  possible  news  of  the  return  of  the 
balloon  and  to  keep  on  the  lookout  for  any  pleasure 
yacht  owner  who  might  have  seen  the  dirigible 
after  she  passed  out  of  sight  of  land;  the  Wash- 
ington offices  were  instructed  to  post  a  man  in  the 
navy  department  all  night  long  to  watch  for  any 
wireless  news  which  might  come  flashing  back  from 
the  torpedo  boat  destroyers  which,  at  the  urgent 
solicitation  of  the  British  ambassador,  were  to  be 
sent  out  to  scour  the  sea  in  search  of  the  missing 
airship,  and  it  was  unanimously  decided  at  editorial 
councils  in  every  office  to  let  the  story  "lead"  the 
paper  the  following  morning  unless  some  great 
unforseen  national  or  international  calamity  tran- 
spired in  the  meantime. 

Jimmy  Martin  became  the  focus  point  of  more 
importunate  newsgatherers  than  he  had  ever 
fancied,  in  his  wildest  dreams,  would  assail  him  for 
information  and  when  a  delegation  of  correspond- 
ents from  a  half  dozen  London  papers  looked  in  on 
him  at  eight  o'clock  and  told  him  that  they  had 
been  instructed  to  rush  as  much  stuff  as  the  cables 
would  carry  he  almost  passed  into  a  trance. 

"Mac,"  he  confided  to  the  manager  when  the 
English  correspondents  had  gone,  "I  feel  like  the 
fellow  who  looked  at  the  giraffe  and  said  'there  'aint 
no  such  animal/  There  ain't  no  such  story.  It's  a 
dream. 

"Well,  I've  left  instructions  that  we're  not  to  be 
called,"  returned  McClintock.  "Let's  dream  a  little 
nTore." 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

In  the  star  dressing  room  on  the  big  stage  of  the 
open  air  auditorium  Lolita  Murphy  was  getting 
ready  for  the  evening  performance  of  "Secret  Serv- 
ice Sallie,"  and  was  making  a  brave  effort  to  con- 
trol herself.  She  was  as  forgotten  as  yesterday's 
newspaper  and  the  realization  of  it  sent  great  tears 
of  bitter  disappointment  coursing  down  her  rouged 
cheeks  into  the  make-up  box  on  the  little  table  in 
front  of  which  she  sat. 


Chapter  Five 

.  It  was  nearly  midnight  when  Bobby  Wilkins* 
chauffeur  reported  over  the  telephone  to  Jimmy 
Martin  and  McClintock,  who  had  been  keeping  anx- 
ious vigil  in  the  office  all  night. 

"There  ain't  a  sign  of  him,"  he  said  hurriedly. 
"I  waited  right  where  you  told  me  to  wait,  and  if 
he'd  have  been  anywhere  within  a  couple  of  miles  I 
could  have  seen  him  after  it  got  dark.  The  moon 
has  been  shining  bright  for  a  long  time,  and  I  had 
a  pair  of  glasses  with  me.  I'm  afraid  it's  all  up 
with  him  if  he  hasn't  landed  somle  place  else  along 
the  coast.  It's  tough  for  all  of  us  if  anything's 
gone  wrong,  ain't  it?" 

The  chauffeur  was  instructed  to  make  another 
trip  to  the  selected  landing  place  and  to  stay  there 
until  dawn  when  relief  was  promised.  Jimmy  was 
pale  and  over-wrought  when  he  hung  up  the  tele- 
phone receiver  and  turned  to  McClintock. 

"If  he  had  landed  any  place  else,"  he  remarked, 
"he'd  have  made  every  effort  to  get  to  a  phone. 
He'd  know  we'd  be  worried.  Gee,  Mac,  supposin* 
somethin's  happened  to  'em.  If  there  has  little  old 
Robert  B.  Remorse'll  be  my  side-partner  for  life. 
He  told  me  he'd  be  prepared  for  all  emergencies 
and  he's  there  with  the  nerve,  but  maybe  they  ran 
into  a  squall  or  something.  Why'd  I  ever  think  of 
-46- 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

this  stunt?     I've  got  too  much  imagination,  Mac, 
I've  got  to  teach  it  to  lie  down  and  behave." 

The  two  sat  up  all  night,  smoking  incessantly  and 
discussing  the  variety  of  fates  which  they  fancied 
might  have  overtaken  the  adventuresome  Bobby 
Wilkins  and  his  distinguished  fellow  passenger. 
Jimmy  called  up  one  of  the  newspaper  offices  every 
fifteen  minutes  for  news,  but  there  wasn't  any 
worth  mentioning.  The  dirigible  had  not  been 
sighted  by  any  ship  with  which  the  navy  wireless 
had  been  able  to  get  into  communication  and  the 
half  dozen  destroyers  sent  out  to  search  for  it  were 
reported  to  be  without  definite  information. 

The  entire  country  seethed  with  the  story  in  the 
morning.  The  Associated  Press  had  carried  fifteen 
hundred  words  into  every  newspaper  office  in  every 
city  of  importance  from  coast  to  coast  and  the  big 
dailies  in  Chicago,  Philadelphia  and  Boston  had 
three  and  four  column  stories  from  their  metropol- 
itan correspondents,  liberally  illustrated  with  pic- 
tures of  the  Hon.  Betty,  who  was  one  of  the  most 
photographed  women  of  her  time.  McClintock, 
who  had  no  knowledge  of  Jimmy's  promlise  to  keep 
Bobby  Wilkins'  real  name  out  of  print,  had  blurted 
it  out  to  a  group  of  reporters  in  the  evening  and 
the  salient  facts  concerning  the  modest  wearer  of 
three  war  medals  were  incorporated  in  all  of  the 
accounts.  Robert  Wilkins,  Sr.,  forgot  that  he  was 
a  mere  business  machine,  wiped  a  few  tears  out  of 
the  corners  of  his  eyes,  looked  tenderly  at  a  picture 
of  a  curly  headed  boy  he  always  kept  in  one  of  the 

—  47  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

drawers  of  his  desk  and  started  east  on  a  special 
train. 

The  total  haul  in  the  New  York  morning  papers 
was  seventy-six  columns  of  solid  reading  matter 
and  thirty-eight  photographic  illustrations.  Every 
angle  of  the  story  was  covered  in  great  detail  and 
in  addition  to  the  main  narrative  there  were  ex- 
tended biographical  sketches  of  the  Hon.  Betty  and 
of  Bobby  Wilkins.  There  were  cabled  stories  from 
London  concerning  the  festive  career  of  the  former 
and  containing  an  expression  of  deep  concern  from 
the  British  premier.  There  were  also  eulogies  of 
the  one  time  ace  from  personages  no  less  impor- 
tant than  the  American  commander  in  chief  in 
France  and  the  generalissimo  of  the  allied  armies. 
All  in  all  it  was  the  most  spectacular  "feature 
story*'  in  years  and  the  greatest  achievement  in 
the  history  of  American  press  agentry.  McClintock 
admitted  that  much  when  the  first  editions  came  in. 

"Jimmy,"  he  said,  "it's  a  dog-goned  shame  that 
you've  got  to  lie  low  and  never  get  credit  for  this. 
Still  you've  got  company.  I  was .  reading  in  the 
paper  the  other  day  that  there's  a  well  defined 
rumor  that  the  more  or  less  celebrated  covenant  of 
the  well  known  League  of  Nations  was  finally 
framed  up  by  a  clerk  in  the  British  foreign  office. 
You  can  drop  over  later  on  and  take  a  little  drink 
with  him  and  cry  it  all  out  on  each  other's 
shoulder." 

Jimmy's  only  response  was  a  mournful  attempt 
at  a  smile.  He  lit  another  cigarette,  jerked  out  of 
-48- 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

his  chair  and  began  to  swear  softly  as  he  walked 
up  and  down  the  room.  He  made  a  vicious  lunge 
with  his  foot  at  a  waste-basket  and  kicked  it 
through  the  door  into  the  next  office.  Then  he  took 
off  his  soft  hat,  rolled  it  into  a  lump  and  slammed 
it  down  on  the  floor  with  a  wide,  sweeping  gesture. 

"I  don't  mind  that  so  much,"  he  said  testily. 
"After  landin'  a  smear  like  that,  though,  I'd  kinda 
like  to  have  a  good  time  with  myself  for  a  few  min- 
utes. I'd  kinda  like  to  throw  a  few  assorted  flow- 
ers up  in  the  air  and  let  'em  drop  on  me,  but  I'm  so 
gosh-darned  worried  about  what's  actually  hap- 
pened that  I  can't  even  have  that  much  fun." 

His  anxiety  increased  as  the  day  wore  on  and 
the  early  editions  of  the  evening  papers  which 
played  up  the  story  even  ntore  extensively  than  the 
"mornings''  failed  to  buoy  him  up.  There  was  still 
no  word  of  the  N-24,  and  navy  department  officials 
in  Washington  were  reported  to  be  gravely  alarmed 
at  the  possibilities. 

At  noon  the  British  embassy  gave  out  the  an- 
nouncement that  "a  distinguished  person"  had  cabled 
for  detailed  information  and  had  begged  to  be  kept 
in  hourly  touch  with  the  developments.  Flaming 
head-lines  carried  the  legend  "King  Anxious  About 
Lost  Dirigible."  Upon  reading  this  three  rival  pub- 
licity promoters  who  had  suspected  the  presence 
of  the  fine  Italian  hand  of  Jimmy  Martin  in  the  pro- 
ceedings from  the  beginning  and  who  had  foregath- 
ered for  lunch  in  their  favorite  club,  simultaneously 
started  out  on  a  joint  jamboree  that  was  to  become 

—  49  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

a  memorable  minor  historical  incident  in  the  turgid 
annals  of  Broadway.  It  offered  the  only  means  of 
escaping  from  the  tragic  feeling  of  profound  and 
passionate  envy  that  surged  up  from  the  very 
depths  of  their  beings. 

At  3  o'clock  as  Jimmy,  red-eyed  and  haggard, 
nodded  at  his  desk  between  telephone  calls,  a  mes- 
senger boy  dropped  a  cablegram  in  front  of  him. 
He  tore  it  open  and  gazed  bewilderingly  at  this 
cryptic  message : 

HAMILTON,  BERMUDA. 
JAMES  T.  MARTIN. 
JOLLYLAND  PARK, 

CONEY  ISLAND,  N.  Y. 
COME    ON    IN— THE    WATER'S    FINE- 
GIVE    MY    REGARDS    TO    LOLITA,    BUT 
CAN'T  SAY  I'M  SORRY  IT  HAPPENED  AS 

YET-  BOBBY   WILKINS. 

Jimmy  gave  a  second  look  at  the  heading  and 
rushed  into  the  next  office  where  McClintock  was 
snoring  sonorously  on  a  sofa.  He  shook  the  man- 
ager savagely  and  waved  the  cablegram  in  front  of 
his  eyes. 

"All's  right  with  the  world,  Mac,"  he  shouted 
joyously.  "They've  landed  in  Bermuda.  Can  you 
beat  that  fresh  son-of-a-gun  doin'  a  thing  like  that  ? 
What's  the  big  idea,  I  wonder?" 

McClintock  grabbed  the  message  and  read  it  hurriedly. 

"I  guess  maybe  he's  mailing  the  answer,"  he  re- 
marked." It  beats  me.  You'd  better  get  a  wire  off 
to  him  asking  for  particulars." 

—  50  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

The  shrill  summons  of  the  telephone  brought 
Jimmy  back  into  his  own  office  the  next  moment. 
The  voice  of  his  friend,  Lindsay,  the  day  desk  man 
of  the  Associated  Press,  came  over  the  wire  in  crisp, 
staccato  sentences. 

"Got  some  news  for  you,"  he  said.  "It's  going  to 
make  this  morning's  headlines  look  sick.  Here's 
the  way  our  first  bulletin  reads : 

"  'Washington,  D.  C— July  7— The  British  ambas- 
sador has  just  given  out  the  following  cablegram 
received  from  the  Governor-General  of  the  Ber- 
muda Islands : — 'Please  announce  to  press  the  mar- 
riage this  morning  in  St.  John's  chapel,  Hamilton, 
of  the  Hon.  Elizabeth  Ardsley  Ashley,  eldest  daugh- 
ter of  Lord  Norbonne,  Bart.,  of  London,  England, 
to  Robert  Benjamin  Wilkins,  Jr.,  only  son  of  Rob- 
ert Benjamin  Wilkins,  Sr.,  of  Chicago,  111,  U.  S.  A. 
The  ceremony  was  entirely  informal/ " 

"I'm  ordering  three  thousand  words  from  our 
Bermuda  correspondent,"  went  on  Lindsay,  "and 
I'm  having  London  break  the  news  gently  to  dear, 
old  dad.  I  suppose  if  I  came  down  on  Sunday  with 
the  wife  and  the  kiddies  you  could  slip  us  into  a  few 
of  your  side-shows." 

"Say,"  responded  Jimmy  exultingly/'  you're  goin* 
to  get  a  life  pass  good  for  each  and  every  attrac- 
tion within  the  big  enclosure." 

As  he  hung  up  the  telephone  and  swung  around 
in  his  swivel  chair  the  door  leading  into  the  hall 
opened  ever  so  gently  and  the  pale  and  tear-stained 
face  of  Lolita  Murphy  peered  through  the  open- 

—  5'  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

ing.  Jimmy  gazed  at  her,  open-eyed,  as  she  came 
slowly  into  the  room.  He  noticed  that  she  had  a 
crumpled  bit  of  paper  in  her  hand. 

"Jimmy,"  she  said  timidly,  as  she  held  out  her 
arms  in  appealing  suppliance,  "I'm  just  a — just  a 
foolish  small  town  kid.  I  didn't  understand — I 
didn't  understand." 

Jimmy,  in  a  daze,  took  the  paper  which  she  held 
towards  him.  It  was  another  cablegram.  He 
smoothed  it  out  and  the  peace  that  surpasseth  un- 
derstanding settled  down  upon  him  as  he  read  these 
words : 

HAMILTON,  BERMUDA. 
LOLITA  MURPHY, 

JOLLYLAND  PARK, 

CONEY  ISLAND,  N.  Y. 
WON'T  IT  EASE  YOUR  DISAPPOINT- 
MENT A  LITTLE  TO  KNOW  THAT  THE 
MAD  IMPULSIVE  THING  I  DID  YESTER- 
DAY AND  THE  RASH  ACT  I  HAVE  JUST 
COMMITTED  IN  THE  CHAPEL  HAVE 
TRANSFORMED  ME  INTO  QUITE  THE 
HAPPIEST  WOMAN  ALIVE— BOBBY  HAS 
TOLD  ME  ALL  ABOUT  EVERYTHING  AND 
HE  FEARS  THAT  YOU  MAY  THINK  YOUR 
FRIEND  MR.  MARTIN  HAD  A  FINGER  IN 
THE  PIE— HE  HAD  NOTHING  TO  DO 
WITH  IT,  MY  DEAR— IT  WAS  JUST  FATE 
OUR  BEST  REGARDS  TO  YOU  BOTH. 

ELIZABETH  ASHLEY  WILKINS. 

McGintock,  coming  into  the  room  just  then,  tip- 
toed out  again  and  closed  the  door  softly  behind 
him,  thus  proving  himself  to  be  a  gentleman  of 
singular  tact  and  discretion. 


Chapter  Six 

An  understanding-  with  Lolita  which  contained 
certain  qualifying  clauses  was  one  of  the  net  results 
of  the  Adventure  of  the  Lost  Dirigible.  Jimmy 
filed  a  number  of  demurrers,  but  they  were  over- 
ruled as  soon  as  they  were  entered  on  the  docket. 
He  had  been  foolish  enough  to  imagine  on  the  cele- 
brated morning  after  the  night  before  that  a  per- 
ceptible scent  of  orange  blossoms  clogged  the  cir- 
cumambient air,  but  this  belief  was  soon  dissipated 
by  the  young  lady  herself. 

"I  can't  get  married,  Jimmy,"  she  said  earnestly, 
"until  I  find  out  about  my  career." 

"What's  that  got  to  with  it?'' 

"Why,  just — why,  everything.  I  was  reading  an 
article  only  the  other  day  by  Mary  Garden  in  which 
she  said  that  marriage  cramped  the  career  of  a 
woman  on  the  stage.  She  said  that  husbands  were 
a  handicap — that  they  held  you  back  with  the  tail 
end  of  the  procession  and  kept  you  from  getting 
on.  She  said 

Jimmy  broke  in  with  a  scornful  laugh. 

"I  suppose  she  mentioned  Mrs.  Fiske  and  Laur- 
ette  Taylor  and  Ethel  Barrymore  and  Blanche  Bates 
and  all  the  other  selling  platers  who've  been  left 
at  the  post  because  they  were  foolish  enough  to 
enter  the  matrimonial  stakes,"  he  scoffed."  "It's 

—  55  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

really  too  bad  about  'em.    It  looked  once  as  if  they 
had  a  chance." 

Her  mouth  stiffened  at  this  and  she  tossed  her 
head  with  a  little  gesture  that  spelled  stubborn 
defiance. 

"Well— anyway— /'  she  said,  "I'm  going  to  see 
how  it  works— for  a  little  while.  Maybe  there  isn't 
going  to  be  any  career  for  me  beyond — well,  beyond 
'Secret  Service  Sallie.'  If  there  isn't  I  might  pos- 
sibly  

She  paused  thoughtfully.  Jimmy's  scornful  mood 
had  passed  and  he  looked  at  her  appealingly. 

"You  might  possibly  what?"  he  ventured,  cau- 
tiously." There  isn't  goin'  to  be  another  catch  in 
it,  is  there?'' 

"I'm  afraid  there  is,"  she  replied,  quietly.  "You'll 
have  to  settle  down  somle  place  first.  I  don't  think 
I'd  ever  learn  how  to  keep  house  permanently  in  a 
hotel  bed-room  and  besides 

Again  a  disturbing  pause.  Jimmy  was  rapidly 
becoming  a  pitiful  object  to  behold. 

"Get  it  all  out  of  your  system,  sister,"  he  said, 
weakly.  "I'm  a  glutton  for  punishment." 

"Well,"'  she  resumed  evenly,  "besides  settling 
down  you'd  have  to  have  some  money  in  the  bank — 
quite  a  little.  That's  the  most  important  thing. 
There  was  a  girl  in  our  town  once  who  ran  off  with 
a  fellow  in  the  show  business  and  lived  a  hand-to- 
mouth  sort  of  a  life  for  several  seasons  after  pass- 
ing up  a  lot  of  good  chances  among  the  boys  she 
knew.  She's  back  selling  stockings  in  Boyd's  Em- 

—  54  — 


'Fresh  Every  Hour 

porium  on  First  avenue  now  and  she  looks  kind  of 
faded  out  and  tired.  I  like  you  a  lot,  Jimmy,  and 
you've  treated  me  better  than  I  deserved  and  you're 
the  nicest  fellow  I  ever  knew,  but  we've  got  to  be 
sensible  and  wait  and  see  how  things  work  out. 
Won't  you — please?" 

The  "please"  was  long  drawn  out  and  a  bit  plain- 
tive. It  touched  the  heart-strings  of  the  hapless 
press  agent  and  played  a  tender  little  strain  upon 
them.  He  meekly  agreed  to  -all  the  qualifying 
clauses  in  the  agreement  and  he  would  have  signed 
on  the  dotted  line  if  they  had  been  three  times  as 
numerous. 

Filled  with  a  new  enthusiasm  his  imagination 
began  to  run  riot  and  within  two  weeks  his  surprise 
assaults  upon  the  front  line  trenches  of  the  forces 
defending  the  serried  columns  of  the  metropolitan 
daily  newspapers  resulted  in  space  returns  that  es- 
tablished new  records. 

He  contrived  to  have  a  member1  of  the  President's 
cabinet  who  happened  to  take  a  ride  on  the  Dippy 
Dip  stalled  in  his  gondola  one  hundred  and  seventy- 
five  feet  in  the  air  for  half  an  hour  while  a  squad 
of  mechanicians  labored  feverishly  to  get  things 
straightened  out.  That  landed  on  the  front  page  of 
every  paper  in  town.  He  married  off  the  Armless 
Wonder  in  Bisbee's  Carnival  of  Freaks  to  the  Leg- 
less Marvel  with  a  new  result  of  six  "picture 
spreads"  and  five  and  a  half  columns  of  solid  read- 
ing mlatter.  His  discovery  that  the  little  dark-haired 
girl  who  danced  on  the  open  air  stage  in  the  big 

—  55  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

free  show  every  afternoon  and  evening  was  the 
daughter  of  a  grand  duke  who  had  fled  in  disguise 
from  Soviet  Russia  and  who  had  feared  to  reveal 
her  identity  because  of  the  possibility  of  attack 
by  Bolshevik  sympathizers  in  this  country  was  his 
biggest  coup,  however.  This  was  sensationally 
played  up  for  all  it  was  worth  and  considerably 
more  in  every  New  York  daily  and  had  been  tele- 
graphed all  over  the  country.  As  a  "follow-up"  on 
this  he  arranged  to  have  two  uniformed  guards  ac- 
company the  young  woman  wherever  she  went. 
This,  too,  landed  heavily  and  Jimmy's  customary 
high  opinion  of  his  own  prowess  was  perhaps  more 
noticeable  than  ever. 

One  evening  while  he  was  sauntering  through 
the  incandescent  splendor  of  Jollyland  in  a  mood  of 
supreme  elevation,  he  heard  the  booming  voice  of 
McClintock  hailing  him  from  the  porch  of  the  ad- 
ministration building. 

"Come  out  of  it,"  the  manager  shouted. 

Jimmy  dropped  back  to  earth  with  a  start  and 
sauntered  toward  the  office. 

"Gosh,"  observed  McClintock,  "you  looked  as  if 
you  were  off  on  a  long  journey.  I  hope  you  brought 
an  idea  back  with  you.  We  need  one.  That's  what 
I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about." 

Jimmy  smiled  the  inscrutable  smile  of  one  who 
is  the  custodian  of  the  wisdom  of  the  ages. 

"I've  got  a  neat  little  assortment  of  goods  I 
picked  up,"  he  responded  cockily.  "What  can  I 
offer  you?" 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"Well,  it's  this  way,"  returned  McClintock.  "You 
haven't  pulled  anything  yet  about  our  co-worker, 
Signer  Antonio  Amado,  and,  his  trained  animal 
show.  He's  just  been  bawling  his  head  off  to  me. 
Says  there's  a  conspiracy  on  foot  to  keep  him  out 
of  the  papers  and  threatens  all  kinds  of  trouble  if 
we  don't  slip  something  over  about  his  concession 
right  away.  I  know  you  planned  to  get  around  to 
him  before  long,  but  you'd  better  start  something 
right  off.  Can  you  think  of  anything?" 

Jimiriy  didn't  reply  for  nearly  half  a  minute.  His 
general  manner  betokened  profound  mental  con- 
centration. 

"I  guess  we  can  accommodate  that  bird,"  he 
finally  remarked.  "I  don't  want  to  hurl  any  purple 
pansies  at  myself,  but  I  think  I've  got  a  stunt  that'll 
pretty  nearly  crowd  everything  else  on  to  the  back 
page  .  I've  got  seven  other  animal  stories  ready,  but 
I  think  this  one  has  a  shade  on  all  of  'em.  I'll  slip 
over  and  ooze  it  into  our  Dago  friend's  intellect." 

The  manager  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"Say,"  he  commented,  "you're  the  best  little 
friend  of  yourself  you  ever  had,  aren't  you?  Just 
hand  out  a  little  of  that  conversation  to  Tony  and 
he'll  lie  down  and  behave  for  a  few  hours.  Tell 
him  you'll  get  his  picture  in  all  the  papers.  That'll 
make  a  hit  with  him.  He's  a  member  of  your  lodge." 

The  implications  of  the  last  remark  made  about 
as  much  impression  on  Jimmy  as  did  the  idle  wind 
which  at  that  moment  was  lightly  brushing  his 
cheek.  He  strolled  over  to  the  garish  and  gaudy 

—  57  — 


'Fresh  Every  Hour 

building  which  housed  Amado's  Colossal  and  Gar- 
gantuan Collection  of  Trained  Wild  Beasts  from  the 
Trackless  Jungle;  paused  just  long  enough  at  the 
main  entrance  to  tell  the  dark-eyed  lady  cashier 
that  she  looked  like  a  pocket  edition  of  Maxine 
Elliott  and  passed  into  the  auditorium  where  Signer 
Amado  was  directing  the  progress  of  the  final  show 
of  the  night. 

The  animal  trainer  was  a  short,  stocky,  swarthy- 
hued  Latin  with  beady  eyes,  shiny  black  hair,  and 
a  moustache  to  the  care  of  which  he  devoted  him- 
self with  self-effacing  solicitude.  It  was  a  fierce 
looking  affair  with  ends  pointed  like  a  rapier,  which 
thrust  themselves  aggressively  upwards  at  a  sharp 
angle  giving  the  signer's  dark  countenance  a  look 
of  great  ferocity.  He  tried  desperately  hard  at 
all  times  to  live  up  to  that  moustache  and  he  had 
a  habit  of  working  himself  into  violent  rages  which 
were,  in  reality,  rather  hollow  and  empty  affairs, 
as  even  the  most  casual  observer  could  see.  He  was 
at  heart,  a  weak  and  excessively  vain  little  man. 
Only  the  animals  who  leaped  or  cowered  at  his 
command  were  fooled  by  his  appearance  of  ferocity. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  show  he  retired  to  his 
office  and  began  to  pour  into  the  unreceptive  ears 
of  the  general  director  of  promotion  and  publicity 
a  voluble  stream  of  protest  against  the  neglect  of 
himself  which  Jimmy  was  able  to  check  only  with 
great  difficulty. 

"Listen,  Signor,"  he  finally  managed  to  remark. 
"You're  wastin'  gas  you'll  need  some  day  when 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

you're  climbin'  uphill.  I  came  in  to  tell  you  about 
a  scheme  I've  got  that'll  put  you  and  your  show 
right  in  the  center  of  the  map  in  bright  green,  and 
you  begin  this  eruption  stuff  that  doesn't  get  you 
even  a  look-in.  Will  you  listen  to  me?'* 

"All  right.  I  makea  de  listen,"  replied  Signer 
Amado,  "but  eef  eet  eesa  nota  one  gooda  schema 
thata  m&kea  me  hava  de  face — Signer  Antonio 
Amado's  face — all  ever  de — what  you  call  ? — all  over 
de  whole  damned  place — I  queeta  de  park — so." 

He  snapped  his  fingers  airily  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  Jimmy  proceeded  to  expound  and  ex- 
patiate, and  as  he  did  so  the  signer's  face  took  on  a 
look  of  intense  interest.  Presently  it  was  wreathed 
in  smiles,  and  he  was  patting  the  press  agent  on 
the  back  and  uttering  words  expressive  of  pleased 
delight.  The  conspirators  conferred  for  a  half  an 
hour,  carefully  going  over  Jimmy's  plan  of  cam- 
paign and  adjusting  the  smallest  details  thereof  so 
that  there  would  be  no  disturbing  faux  pas  on  the 
morrow.  They  pledged  the  success  of  the  enter- 
prise just  before  midnight  in  brimming  glasses  of 
Chianti  which  the  signor  drew  from  a  secret  hiding 
place  in  his  desk. 

At  about  ten  o'clock  on  the  following  morning  an 
express  wagon  drove  up  in  front  of  Signor  Amado's 
concession  and  four  husky  attendants  brought  out 
a  large  box  which  was  placed  on  it.  Jimmy  drew 
the  driver  aside  and  gave  him  final  instructions. 

"Get  right  near  the  tower  on  the  Manhattan  side 
of  the  Brooklyn  bridge,"  he  said,  "and  figure  on 

—  59  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

making  it  at  just  about  noon.  Drive  slowly  and  if 
anyone  near  you  makes  a  noise  like  a  cop  don't  pull 
anything  just  then.  Wait  till  there's  no  one  lookin' 
and  then  reach  back,  unfasten  jthe  hasp  and  lift  the 
lid.  Then  you've  got  to  register  surprise,  conster- 
nation and  annoyance  and  suggest  calling  up  Signor 
Amado  when  the  plot  begins  to  thicken,  if  you  get 
what  I  mean." 

The  driver,  a  typical  "wise"  product  of  the  New 
York  streets,  nooded  his  head,  Signor  Amado  spoke 
a  few  mystic  words  through  a  wire  netting  at  one 
end  of  the  box  and  the  "plant"  started  on  its  way 
after  Jimmy  gave  a  final  parting  instruction. 

"I'll  probably  be  in  the  immediate  vicinity  when 
things  begin  to  break,"  he  cautioned,  "but  for  the 
love  of  P.  T.  Barnum  don't  make  any  signs  of 
recognition.** 


—  <5o— 


Chapter  Seven 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  at  the  appointed  hour 
Jimmy,  nonchalantly  strolling  along1  the  promenade 
near  the  great  stone  tower  on  the  Manhattan  side 
of  the  bridge,  cast  a  wary  glance  down  towards  the 
roadway  and  observed  the  express  wagon  slowly 
jogging  along  directly  underneath.  The  driver, 
covertly  glancing  to  the  right  and  the  left,  reached 
behind  the  seat  with  a  quick  mjovement,  fumbled 
for  an  instant  with  the  hasp  and,  after  lifting  back 
the  lid  of  the  box,  resumed  his  two-handed  control 
of  the  reins,  perceptibly  slowing  up  the  speed  of 
the  wagon. 

The  next  instant  the  mischievous  and  uncannily 
human  looking  head  of  a  large-sized  monkey  ap- 
peared above  the  top  of  the  box.  He  blinked  for  a 
moment  in  the  strong  sunlight,  reassured  himself 
that  the  driver  was  not  watching  him,  leaped  lightly 
to  the  roadway  and  made  for  the  network  of  auxil- 
iary cables  which  run  from  the  main  supporting 
cables  of  the  great  bridge.  Following  him  came  a 
procession  of  other  monkeys  of  varying  sizes  and 
kinds — short-tails  and  long-tails,  some  with  weird 
whiskers  and  others  as  devoid  of  facial  adornment 
as  a  new-born  babe — all  of  them  chattering  and 
gibbering,  each  one  intensely  alive  and  apparently 
—  61  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

determined  on  having  the  time  of  his  or  her  young 
life  as  the  case  might  be.  There  were  fifteen  of 
them  in  all  and  as  they  sprang  out  of  the  wagon, 
one  by  one,  and  started  to  join  the  venturesome 
leader  of  the  expedition  they  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  scores  of  pedestrians,  chauffeurs  and  drivers. 

"Hey,  there,  young  fellow,"  shrieked  a  man  on 
the  promenade.  "You  gosh-darned  zoo  in  escap- 
ing." 

The  driver  stopped  the  wagon  suddenly,  turned 
around  and  proceeded  to  give  a  perfect  imitation  of 
a  man  in  that  particular  frame  of  mind  popularly 
known  as  a  "blue  funk."  He  jumped  to  the  roadway 
and  tried  to  clutch  the  last  of  the  escaping  simians 
by  the  hind  legs.  That  agile  creature  eluded  his 
grasp  and  joined  two  of  his  brethren  who  were 
chattering  gaily  at  the  base  of  the  labyrinthian 
maze  of  cables  and  supports.  By  this  time  the  first 
dozen  of  the  monkeys  had  clambered  aloft  and  were 
surveying  the  constantly  increasing  crowd  of  joy- 
ous onlookers  from  points  of  vantage  anywhere 
from  twenty  to  a  hundred  feet  in  the  air. 

A  policeman  shouldered  his  way  through  the  front 
ranks  of  the  crowd  and  looked  up  at  the  galaxy  of 
nimble  apes.  He  was  sputtering  and  fuming  with 
rage. 

"Come  down  out  of  that,"  he  yelled  helplessly, 
shaking  his  club  in  an  absurdly  futile  attempt  to 
wield  authority. 

The  crowd  roared  with  delight.  One  of  the 
monkeys  still  on  the  ground  darted  toward  him, 
—  62  — 


Tfresh  Every  Hour 

leaped  on  his  shoulder  and  sprang  from  it  to  the 
nearest  cable  far  above  his  head  before  he  was  con- 
scious of  exactly  what  had  happened.  He  struck 
vainly  at  it  with  his  stick.  The  crowd  rocked  with 
laughter.  Two  other  policemen  joined  him,  forcing 
their  way  with  difficulty  through  the  dense  mass  of 
pedestrians  on  the  promenade. 

"Maybe  if  we  whistled  at  him,  Dinny,"  observed 
one  of  these  sagely,  "they  might  come  down/' 

The  three  guardians  of  the  law  proceeded  to 
pucker  up  their  lips  and  to  emit  a  series  of  plaintive 
whistles  which  so  startled  the  one-time  denizens 
of  the  jungle  that  all  of  them,  as  if  swayed  by  some 
comjmon  impulse,  swung  lightly  to  places  ten  or 
twelve  feet  higher. 

"Sing  'em  a  little  song,"  shouted  a  ribald  youth 
and  the  crowd  once  more  chortled  with  glee. 

At  this  juncture  a  police  lieutenant  arrived  on 
the  scene,  attracted  from  a  distance  by  the  great 
congestion  of  traffic.  More  than  two  thousand  per- 
sons were  now  gathered  on  the  promenade  and 
vehicular  progress  in  both  directions  was  clogged. 
A  long  line  of  trolley  cars  was  strung  out  to  the 
east  and  the  west,  and  several  hundred  motor  cars 
and  trucks  were  stalled  while  their  drivers  crowded 
forward  to  enjoy  the  fun.  The  lieutenant  sized  up 
the  seriousness  of  the  situation  instantly.  He  dis- 
patched one  of  the  patrolmen  to  telephone  for  the 
reserves  and  to  send  in  a  still  alarm  for  the  fire 
department,  and  then  turned  to  Jimmy's  willing 
tool,  the  driver.  That  individual,  still  registering 
-bj- 


'Fresh  Every  Hour 

dazed  bewilderment,  shrugged  his  shoulders  when 
asked  to  assist  in  bringing  down  the  escaped 
monkeys,  who  were  now  festooned  in  irregular 
formation  along  the  interlocking  cables  for  a  dis- 
tance of  several  hundred  feet.  Most  of  them  were 
swinging  by  their  tails  and  otherwise  comporting 
themselves  with  a  supreme  disregard  for  law  and 
order. 

"I  can't  do  a  thing,  boss,"  persisted  the  driver. 
"I  don't  know  the  first  name  of  a  single  one  of  the 
bunch.  Maybe  if  some  one  telephoned  for  the  gink 
that  owns  'em  he  might  be  able  to  bring  'em  down.'' 

And  so  it  further  came  to  pass  that  Signor  An- 
tonio Amado  was  reached  on  the  telephone  at  Jolly- 
land;  that  he  swore  lustily  in  three  languages  in 
simulation  of  great  consternation  and  that  he  prom- 
ised to  come  to  the  scene  of  hostilities  as  rapidly 
as  his  touring  car  could  bring  him.  When  he  ar- 
rived forty  minutes  later,-  the  crowd  had  grown  to 
ten  thousand  and  the  greatest  tie-up  of  traffic  in 
the  history  of  the  bridge  was  in  progress.  The  fire- 
men from  two  hook  and  ladder  companies  were 
making  ineffectual  efforts  to  bring  down  the  inno- 
cent disturbers  of  the  great  city's  peace  and  dignity 
and  a  certain  press  agent,  watching  the  proceedings 
from  a  discreet  distance,  was  enjoying  the  biggest 
emotional  experience  of  a  somewhat  checkered  and 
not  altogether  drab  career.  He  was  getting  the 
same  sort  of  thrill  that  comes  to  the  playwright  as 
he  stands  in  the  rear  of  a  theatre  during  a  tense 
scene  in  a  play  of  his  writing  and  watches  a  great 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

audience  swayed  by  something  he  has  originated. 

Jimmy  noticed  with  keen  interest  that  a  group 
of  newspaper  men  had  already  gathered  on  the 
scene,  and  that  among  them  was  no  less  a  celebrity 
than  Frank  Malia,  of  the  Item,  the  star  feature 
writer  of  the  Eastern  Seaboard  and  a  specialist  in 
stories  with  a  humorous  angle.  Jimmy  knew  that 
there  were  standing  orders  in  the  Item  office  to 
"let  Malia's  stuff  run,"  and  he  felt  reasonably  sure 
of  at  least  a  column  and  half  in  that  particular 
paper. 

It  may  be  recorded  that  the  arrival  of  Signor 
Amado,  resplendent  in  the  snappy  green  and  white 
huzzar  uniform  he  wore  while  directing  the  per- 
'  formances  in  his  concession,  brought  the  festivities 
to  a  rapid  conclusion.  In  response  to  sharply 
spoken  words  of  command  from  the  fierce-looking 
little  trainer  the  truant  apes  descended  rather  re- 
luctantly from  their  perches  and  permitted  them- 
selves to  be  herded  together  once  more  into  the 
wooden  cage,  the  top  of  which  was  now  securely 
fastened  down  under  the  personal  direction  of  the 
police  inspector  who  had  arrived  to  take  charge  of 
affairs  a  few  minutes  before. 

The  great  throng  cheered  the  signer  vociferously 
when  he  had  finished  and  stepped  into  his  car.  He 
bowed  again  and  again,  kissed  his  hand,  waved  his 
busby  and  gave  other  indications  of  profound  satis- 
faction with  himself  and  with  what  he  felt  to  be  the 
justly  merited  plaudits  accorded  him.  Jimmy  per- 
mitted himself  to  be  swallowed  up  in  the  eddies 
-65- 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

of  the  dispersing  crowd,  as  the  signer's  car  whirled 
him  back  to  Jollyland. 

The  subsequent  proceedings  were  all  that  the 
most  sanguine  and  optimistic  press  agent  could  de- 
sire. The  story  landed  with  a  big  splash  in  all  the 
evening  papers,  and  four  of  the  morning  papers 
covered  it  with  feature  yarns  running  all  the  way 
from  three  quarters  of  a  column  to  nearly  two  col- 
umns in  length.  The  longest  story  of  all  was  writ- 
ten by  Malia.  It  was  a  delightful  bit  of  foolery 
written  in  a  spirit  of  satirical  burlesque  and  full  of 
whimsical  little  touches  that  made  it  the  talk  of  the 
week  in  journalistic  circles. 

There  was  only  one  thing  that  marred  the  perfect 
symmetry  of  the  general  effect.  While  the  fact 
that  the  monkeys'  temporary  habitat  was  Jolly- 
land  was  properly  chronicled  in  headlines  and  in 
the  body  of  all  the  stories,  there  was  no  mention 
made  by  name  of  Signer  Antonio  Amado  except  in 
one  paper  and  then  his  alliterative  cognomen  was 
atrociously  misspelled  and  appeared  as  Andy 
Amato.  He  was  referred  to,  of  course,  and  de- 
scribed as  well,  but  impersonally.  Mention  was 
made  in  one  story  of  "a  funny  little  fellow  who 
looked  as  if  he  had  escaped  from  the  chorus  of  a 
"Balkan  operatta,"  and  Malia  had  called  him  "a 
bandit  king  with  the  manners  of  a  marquis  and  the 
sang-froid  of  a  Subway  guard.'' 

After  glimpsing  the  evening  papers  and  observ- 
ing this  omission  Jimmy  had  turned  over  the  con- 
duct of  affairs  in  his  office  for  the  night  to  his 
—  66  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

assistant,  hoping  that  the  morning-  papers  would 
use  the  signer's  name.  When  he  read  the  others  at 
breakfast  his  elation  at  the  general  success  of  his 
personally  conducted  enterprise  was  tempered 
somewhat  by  the  prospect  of  an  eruption  from  the 
Vesuvian  temperam'ent  of  the  animal  trainer.  He 
wasn't  particularly  disturbed  at  this  because  he  had 
sized  the  signer  up  as  a  false  alarm  from  the  start, 
but  it  meant  a  disconcerting  half  hour  or  so  and  he 
was  a  little  bit  peeved  that  the  fates  should  have 
allotted  him  anything  that  was  not  rosy  and  serene 
on  what  should  have  been  a  day  of  general  re- 
joicing and  grlad  acclaim. 

McClintock  met  him  at  the  entrance  to  Jollyland. 
The  manager  wore  an  anxious  look. 

"Tony's  off  the  reservation,"  he  confided.  "He 
did  a  series  of  flip-flops  in  my  office  a  half  hour  ago 
and  I  understand  that  he's  turning  handsprings  all 
around  his  arena  at  the  present  writing.  He  in- 
quired about  your  health.  I  told  him  you  had  gone 
over  to  Philadelphia  on  a  little  business  for  me. 
Better  stick  to  the  office  all  day.  He  never  keeps 
these  things  up  for  more  than  twenty-four  hours. 
Grand  little  story,  that',  even  if  it  did  annoy  the 
King  of  Beasts." 


Chapter  Eight 

Another  of  life's  irritations  managed  to  try  the 
soul  of  McClintock  that  morning.  One  of  the  more 
or  less  wild  and  untutored  savages  from  the  South 
Sea  Island  Village  on  the  ocean  side  of  the  park 
came  into  the  possession  of  a  pint  flask  of  the 
Demon  Rum  which  had  been  washed  up  on  the 
beach,  and  with  no  regard  for  the  refined  niceties 
of  imbibing  had  swallowed  the  contents  in  a  series 
of  continuous  gulps.  The  subsequent  proceedings 
relieved  the  ennui  and  lethargy  which  always  en- 
folded Jollyland  in  the  morning  hours  before  the 
gates  were  thrown  open  to  the  general  public. 

The  savage  gentleman — a  thin,  wiry  person  with 
wicked  looking  eyes  from  whose  slit  ear  lobes,  nose 
and  lower  lip  there  hung  a  choice  collection  of 
carved  sea  shells  and  brass  rings,  went  into  execu- 
tive session  with  himself  and  proclaimed  a  Reign 
of  Terror  as  the  best  means  of  establishing  a  dicta- 
torship over  the  fellow  members  of  his  tribe,  and 
the  entire  park  as  well.  He  started  proceedings  by 
invading  his  straw-thatched  domicile  and  seriously 
damaging,  with  a  well-directed  blow,  the  facial 
contour  of  the  companion  of  his  joys.  That  lady,  a 
most  formidable  party  who  had  been  taken  un- 
awares, retaliated  in  kind  with  such  verve  and 
—  68  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

energy  that  the  self-constituted  dictator  left  his  do- 
mestic hearth  with  great  suddenness  and  started  on 
the  rampage  through  the  village  street. 

He  seemed  to  have  no  carefully  calculated  plan 
of  campaign  and  no  particular  objective.  A  general 
demolishment  of  all  existing  institutions,  a  compre- 
hensive destruction  of  private  property  in  general 
and  a  leveling  of  class  distinctions  appeared  to  be 
his  vague  aim.  He  leaped  through  a  frame  on  which 
one  of  the  natives  was  weaving  a  blanket,  com- 
pletely ruining  the  work  of  months;  he  overturned 
a  shelf  full  of  crude  earthenware  jugs  which  the 
potter  of  the  establishment  had  contrived;  and  he 
playfully  kissed  the  stout  and  principal  wife  of 
Mumbo  Tom,  the  chief  of  the  village.  When  that 
venerable  worthy  attempted  to  remonstrate  in  an 
outburst  of  outraged  dignity,  he  tweaked  the  old 
fellow's  nose  three  times  in  rapid  succession. 

Passing  out  through  the  main  gateway  of  the  vil- 
lage into  the  esplanade  he  continued  his  ruthless 
assaults  on  organized  society.  Uttering  weird  and 
entirely  unintelligible  invocations  to  the  spirits  of 
his  savage  ancestors  in  a  high-pitched  voice,  he 
vaulted  on  to  the  back  of  a  patient-looking  cancel 
which  was  being  groomed  by  a  red-fezzed  Egyptian 
from  Greenville,  Mississippi,  preparatory  to  being 
ridden  by  visitors  to  the  park  at  twenty-five  cents 
per  head.  He  dug  his  bare  heels  into  the  beast's 
sides  and  emitted  a  wild  whoop.  The  camel  turned 
her  head,  surveyed  him  rather  bewilderingly  and 
started  down  the  roadway  on  a  brisk  canter  for 
-op- 


'Fresh  Every  Hour 

about  a  hundred  feet.  Then  she  gave  a  little  snort 
and  heaved  her  humps  convulsively.  The  social 
rebel  from  the  South  Seas  shot  through  the  air  and 
landed  in  the  direct  center  of  a  booth  presided 
over  by  a  gentleman  from  Nippon  and  devoted  to 
what  is  known  as  the  "JaPanese  ball  game/'  The 
results  here  were  disastrous.  When  he  picked  him- 
self from  the  clutter  of  broken  china  and  glass  with 
which  he  was  almost  entirely  covered  his  head  was 
bloody,  but  unbowed.  He  shook  himself  like  some 
shaggy  dog  just  emerging  from  a  dip  in  the  ocean, 
bounded  over  the  counter  and  made  for  Antonio 
Amado's  wild  animal  show,  pursued  by  a  howling 
mob  of  attendants  and  special  policemen  who  had 
gathered  from  the  four  corners  of  the  park. 

He  burst  through  the  entrance  to  the  enclosure 
and  ran  along  a  passageway  into  the  private  office 
of  Signer  Amado  himself.  That  ferocious  looking 
worthy  was,  at  the  moment,  delivering  a  philippic 
to  his  principal  assistant,  a  pungent  diatribe  di- 
rected against  the  press,  press  agents,  stupid  park 
managements  and  the  inherent  injustice  of  mankind 
in  general.  At  the  sight  of  the  wild-eyed  and  blood- 
stained visitor  from  an  alien  clime  in  the  doorway, 
he  passed  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence.  His  jaw 
dropped  and  his  face  turned  ghastly  white.  He 
ducked  behind  a  desk  and  mumbled  a  fervid  appeal 
to  the  patron  saint  of  his  native  village  in  Lom- 
bardy.  The  visitor  looked  around  for  something  to 
destroy.  His  gaze  encountered  a  half  empty  bottle 
of  Chianti  on  a  table  and  he  sprang  for  it  with  the 
—  70  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

fierce  avidity  of  a  lion  leaping  at  his  prey  from  am- 
bush. The  contents  of  the  bottle  were  gurgling 
down  his  throat  to  the  accompaniment  of  half- 
choked  chuckles  of  delight  when  the  pursuing  mob 
closed  in  a  few  seconds  later  and  quelled  the  revo- 
tion.  McCHntock  rushed  in  as  the  special  policemen 
were  putting  a  pair  of  handcuffs  on  the  would  be 
Trotsky.  Signor  Amado,  arising  from  behind  the 
desk,  confronted  him. 

"Whatafor  you  leta  theese  fella  in  here,  eh?"  he 
cried  belligerently,  his  old  pose  of  aggressiveness 
automatically  asserting  itself  at  the  sight  of  the 
pinions  which  held  the  savage  intruder  safely  bound. 

McCHntock  laughed  at  the  sheer  absurdity  of  this 
remark. 

"We  didn't  let  him  in  any  place,  Tony,"  fie  re- 
plied. "He  just  happened  to  drop  in  here  and  sev- 
eral places  along  the  line  before  we  could  catch  up 
with  him." 

"Whata  make  him  so  bada  man,  er?"  inquired 
the  animal  trainer. 

"Booze,  Tony,  plain  old-fashioned  booze.  They 
tell  me  he  picked  up  a  bottle  on  the  beach  some  one 
must  have  dropped  off  an  excursion  boat.  These 
fellows  can't  stand  intoxicants  of  any  kind.  It 
makes  'em  wild.  I  see  he's  been  cutting  into  your 
Chianti." 

He  gave  orders  for  the  temporary  bestowal  of 
the  now  thoroughly  chastened  and  mollified  revolu- 
tionary, and  was  following  the  latter's  captors  out 

—  71  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

of  the  office  when  Signor  Amado  plucked  him  by 
the  sleeve. 

"Say,  meester,"  inquired  the  latter.  "You  geta 
my  face  in  de  papers  tomor',  eh?" 

The  manager  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  afraid  that  won't  be  possible — that  is  to- 
morrow/' he  replied.  "I  told  you  this  morning 
we'd  do  the  very  best  we  could  to  work  up  another 
story  about  you  next  week  when  this  monkey  yarn 
was  sort  of  died  down.  Then  we'll  see  what  wt 
can  do  about  landing  your  picture  right.  Don't 
worry.  Leave  it  all  to  me. 

Signor  Amado  assumed  a  defiant  attitude. 

"I  giva  you — what  you  call,  eh  ? — a  warning.  You 
have  my  face  in  alia  de  papers  tomor'  or,  by  dam,  I 
feexa  de  park  gooda." 

McClintock  had  heard  threats  like  that  before. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  walked  out.  Signor 
Amado's  shifting  glance  fell  upon  the  overturned 
Chianti  bottle  on  the  table  and  remained  there  for  a 
few  seconds.  A  malicious  gleam  slowly  crept  into 
his  beady  eyes  and  he  smiled. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  chronicle  the  fact  that 
the  classic  features  of  Eignor  Antonia  Amado  did 
not  decorate  the  pages  of  any.  of  the  metropolitan 
newspapers  on  the  following  day.  McClintock 
hadn't  bothered  to  tell  Jimmy  anything  about  the 
animal  trainer's  threat.  He  refused  to  take  it  seri- 
ously himself  and  he  saw  no  reason  for  worrying 
the  press  agent  with  any  mention  of  it,  particularly 
as  that  gentleman  was  busily  engaged  in  working 
—  72  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

out  the  details  of  a  fresh  story  which  was  to  center 
around  the  fake  kidnapping  of  two  babies  from  the 
Infant  Incubator. 

When  Signer  Amado  himself  had  carefuMy 
scanned  the  papers,  and  had  convinced  himself  once 
more  of  the  existence  of  a  secret  conspiracy  to  keep 
his  name  out  of  print  he  was  strangely  silent  for 
one  prone  to  burst  into  vociferous  vocalization  on 
the  slightest  provocation.  He  even  chuckled  a  little 
when  he  put  the  last  paper  down  and  his  beady  eyes 
glinted  nastily  again.  He  strolled  out  into  the  room 
where  his  animals  paced  restlessly  back  and  forth 
in  the  cramped  limits  of  their  stuffy  cages  and  he 
spoke  to  several  of  them  on  his  parade  of  inspec- 
tion. 

"Dey  teenka  day  make  beega  foola  of  your  boss, 
Lena,*'  he  remarked  to  a  great  lioness  who  pushed 
her  nose  against  the  bars  of  her  cage  at  his  ap- 
proach, "  but,  by  dam,  he  makea  dem  feel  ver'  fool- 
ish eh,  Lena?  He  puta  de  whole  parka  on  de  bum. 
What  you  say,  Lena,  eh?" 

He  playfully  poked  at  the  splendid  creature's 
flank  and  she  responded  with  a  long  drawn  out  roar 
of  really  terrifying  volume.  Signor  Amado  felt 
moved  to  sinister  laughter. 

"Dat's  right,  olda  girl,"  he  continued.  "I  puta  de 
whole  park  on  de  bum?" 


—  73— 


Chapter  Nine 

Rain  began  to  fall  early  that  afternoon,  a  steady 
persistent  downpour  that  held  no  immediate  prom- 
ise of  abatement.  A  melancholy  grayness  enve- 
loped Jollyland,  converting  it  into  a  bleak  and  dis- 
mal habitation  wherein  dwelt  people  who  seemed  to 
have  drunk  of  the  chalice  of  desolation.  Rain  at 
the  seaside  is  depressing  enough,  but  rain  in  a  sum- 
mer park  in  the  height  of  the  season,  rain  that 
comes  up  just  after  the  gates  are  opened  and  that 
looks  as  if  it  would  last  for  twenty-four  hours, 
produces  an  effect  of  gloom  that  almost  defies  de- 
scription. Thousands  of  once  gay  flags  twisted 
themselves  limply  around  their  poles;  dozens  of 
lady  cashiers  who  hadn't  taken  in  a  cent  for  hours 
and  who  were  tired  of  their  novels  and  incessant 
gum-chewing  gazed  listlessly  into  the  leaden  sky 
and  wished  they  were  home  in  Flatbush  or  Astoria ; 
low-spirited  concessionaires  figured  up  their  losses 
with  pencil  and  paper  and  would  have  cursed  the 
Fates  if  they  had  known  of  the  existence  of  those 
divinities;  performers,  literally  sick  with  ennui, 
clustered  in  little  groups  under  cover  and  queru- 
lously argued  with  each  other  about  trivilities ;  the 
waiters  in  the  "Trianon"  restaurant  at  the  end  of 
what  was  called  the  Street  of  a  Thousand  Delights, 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

foreseeing  that  there  would  be  no  largesse  forth- 
coming until  the  dawn  of  another  day,  rolled  dice 
for  the  previous  night's  pickings  or  aimlessly  dis- 
cussed Flying  Scud's  chances  in  the  fifth  race  at 
Belmont  Park;  the  South  Sea  Islanders  crooned 
weird  chants  under  the  shelter  of  their  grass  huts 
and  McClintock  smoked  thick,  black  cigars  and 
called  up  his  friend  in  the  weather  bureau  every 
fifteen  minutes  in  a  vain  search  for  cheerful  tidings. 
At  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening — not  a  single  patron 
having  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  park  for  four 
hours  and  the  weather  man's  report  still  being 
"continued  rain" — he  ordered  Jollyland  officially 
closed  for  the  night,  shut  his  desk  with  a  vicious 
slam  and  stepped  over  to  Jimmy  Martin's  office  for 
a  chat. 

"Well,"  remarked  the  press  agent,  glancing  up 
from  his  typewriter,  "it  looks  as  if  we  were  in  for 
a  nice  quiet  evening  at  home.  Has  there  been  any 
squawk  lately  from  my  Italian  friend?" 

"There's  hasn't  been  a  peep  out  of  him  since  yes- 
terday/' replied  the  manager.  "This  rain  has  given 
him  something  else  to  worry  about.  He  loves 
money  as  the  flowers  love  the  dew,  and  I'll  bet  he 
hasn't  taken  in  $8.25  all  day." 

McClintock  dropped  into  a  chair,  swung  one  foot 
on  Jimmy's  desk  and  lazily  puffed  at  his  cigar  while 
the  press  agent  ground  out  on  the  clicking  machine 
a  romantic  tale  concerning  a  lady  rejoicing  in  the 
cognomen  of  Montana  Maggie,  who  rode  a  cow 
pony  in  Earamie  Ike's  Wild  West  Show  and  who 

-75- 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

totally  annihilated  dozens  of  glass  balls  with  her 
trusty  rifle  at  every  exhibition  given  in  that  con- 
cession. Outside  the  rain  poured  incessantly.  A 
mist-laden  breeze  found  its  way  through  the  open 
windows,  but  it  didn't  seem  to  dampen  the  pristine 
enthusiasm)  of  Jimmy  Martin  who  was  working 
with  all  the  fervor  of  a  reporter  trying  to  catch  an 
edition  with  a  big  murder  story  and  the  "dead  line" 
only  ten  minutes  away. 

Presently  there  came  to  the  ears  of  t>oth  men  the 
echo  of  a  far-off  sound  that  penetrated  through  the 
monotonous  murmur  of  the  dripping  rain.  It 
seemed  like  the  blended  babble  of  many  voices  and 
yet  it  was  vaguely  indistinct.  McClintock  jerked 
his  foot  off  the  desk  and  straightened  up  in  his 
chair. 

"If  it  wasn't  raining  so-dog-goned  hard/'  he  re- 
marked "I'd  say  someone  was  staging  a  doughboy's 
'welcome  home'  parade  or  a  young  riot.  What  is 
it,  I  wonder?" 

"There's  doings  somewhere  close  at  hand,'*  was 
Jimmy's  comment  as  he  stood  up,  walked  towards 
one  of  the  windows,  and  peered  out.  "Here's  little 
old  Paul  Revere  now,  coming  to  tell  us  the  news.'' 

The  next  instant  a  dripping  park  attendant, 
white-faced  and  trembling  with  excitement,  burst 
through  the  door. 

"Mr.  McClintock,"  he  stammered,  "there's  par- 
ticular hell  to  pay  down  in  the  South  Sea  village. 
That  bunch  of  wild-eyed  nuts  is  all  soused  and  they 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

look  as  if  they  was  gettin'  ready  to  go  on  the  war- 
path. They're  crazy  drunk — where  they  got  the 

stuff  beats  me, and  they're  dancin'  around  and 

singing'  songs  fierce  and  when  Patsy  Burke  tried  to 
go  in  and  argue  with  'em  they  threw  spears  at  him. 
He  got  cut  in  the  shoulder — it  ain't  anything  bad — 
but  you  can't  tell  what'll  happen  and  the  rest  of 
us  is  kinda  upset.  You'd  better  come  along  right 
away.  We've  got  guards  posted  all  around  the 
fence,  but  I'm  afraid  if  they  start  to  come  out 
something  pretty  rough'll  happen." 

"The  end  of  a  perfect  day,"  murmured  the  man- 
ager as  he  jammed  his  hat  on  his  head  and  plunged 
out  into  the  driving  rain,  closely  followed  by  Jimmy 
and  the  attendant. 

The  events  of  the  next  hour  were  as  full  of  excit- 
ing incident  as  the  entire  fifteen  reels  of  a  movie 
"serial."  The  attendant  had  spoken  truly  when  he 
stated  that  the  forty-odd  savages  in  the  village  were 
drunk.  They  were  roaring,  raving  drunk.  When 
McClintock  and  Jimmy  reached  their  habitat  they 
were  filling  the  air  with  wild  cries  and  maniacal 
shrieks.  They  were  brandishing  spears  and  vicious 
looking  war  clubs,  and  were  dancing  about  the 
grass  hut  of  Chief  Mumbo  Tom  with  all  the  fierce 
abandon  of  whirling  dervishes.  That  ancient  dig- 
nitary was  sitting  in  front  of  the  royal  palace  on  his 
throne  chair  in  a  state  of  maudlin  stupor,  draining 
the  last  dregs  of  a  bottle  which  he  held  to  his  lips 
and  directing  the  festivities  with  encouraging 
waves  of  his  free  hand.  The  steady  downpour  of 

—  77- 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

rain  seemed  to  have  no  effect  whatever  on  the  cele- 
bration. 

Finally  the  chief  dropped  the  bottle  and  clapped 
his  hands.  There  was  silence  for  a  moment  and  he 
made  a  brief  speech,  liberally  punctuated  by  hic- 
coughs. When  he  had  finished  the  others  gave  a 
concerted  cheer  and  turned  towards  the  stockade 
which  surrounded  the  village. 

"They're  coming  out,"  shouted  McClintock,  who 
was  peering  through  an  opening,  "get  your  clubs 
ready,  boys.  Don't  anybody  shoot.  We'll  get  into 
all  kinds  of  a  mix-up  if  you  do." 

The  battle  royal  which  followed  lasted  for  sev- 
eral minutes.  The  special  policeman  and  other  at- 
tendants gathered  outside  the  enclosure  won  out 
after  a  desperate  struggle  and  drove  all  but  three 
of  the  rioters  back.  These  three  managed  to  -worm 
their  way  through  the  press  and  went  shrieking  up 
the  main  street  of  Jollyland  in  emulation  of  their 
brother  whose  adventures  of  the  day  before  have 
already  been  duly  chronicled.  The  net  damage 
which  they  wrought  before  capture  was  appraised 
on  the  following  day  at  several  thousand  dollars. 
When  the  partially  sobered  villagers  renewed  their 
effort  to  get  out  of  the  stockade  fifteen  minutes 
later  they  were  met  with  decided  opposition  from 
the  park's  fire  company,  which  had  been  called  out 
by  McClintock.  A  well  directed  high-pressure 
stream  of  water  from  a  fire  hose  sent  them  tum- 
bling over  one  another  in  disordered  array  and 
brought  about  a  final  cessation  of  hostilities. 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

In  the  excitement  attendant  upon  the  suppression 
of  the  incipient  revolution  no  one  observed  a  spec- 
tator who  watched  the  proceedings  from  a  sheltered 
position  directly  opposite  the  main  entrance  of  the 
village.  No  one  overheard  his  chuckles  or  saw  him 
twirl  the  ends  of  his  waxed  moustache  with  a  little 
gesture  expressive  of  pleased  satisfaction  with  him- 
self. For  that  matter  no  one  had  seen  one  of  his 
assistants  unload  three  cases  of  Chianti  from  a 
push-cart  in  the  rear  of  Mumbo  Tom's  dwelling 
late  in  the  afternoon  during  a  particularly  heavy 
downpour  of  rain  or  had  overheard  the  announce- 
ment that  the  villagers  were  requested  to  drink  to 
Signor  Antonio  Amato's  health.  And  there  was  no 
one  to  overhear  the  signor  murmur  as  he  stole  back 
to  his  office  through  the  gathering  darkness. 

"I  tella  dem  I  putta  de  park  on  de  bum." 


—  79  — 


Chapter  Ten 


Fifteen  minutes  after  peace  had  been  declared 
McClintock  and  Jimmy,  both  thoroughly  soaked 
and  decidedly  uncomfortable,  foregathered  in  the 
latter's  office  for  a  comparison  of  notes  and  a  gen- 
eral consultation. 

"That'd  make  a  pippin'  of  a  story  if  you'd  dare  to 
let  it  get  out/'  ventured  the  press  agent  as  he 
wrung  out  the  corner  of  his  saturated  coat  into  a 
waste-basket. 

"Well,  I  don't  take  the  dare,"  returned  the  man- 
ager peevishly.  "That's  one  story  that  the  censor 
isn't  going  to  let  get  through  if  he  can  stop  it." 

"What's  the  harm?"  inquired  Jimmy  innocently. 

McClintock  looked  him  over  carefully  before  re- 
plying. 

"What's  the  idea?"  he  remarked  scornfully.  "Is 
your  reason  tottering  on  its  throne?  Don't  you 
know  that  if  this  thing  got  out  it'd  scare  away  the 
family  parties  that  are  the  backbone  of  our  patron- 
age? You  couldn't  induce  women  to  come  within 
half  a  mile  of  the  park  if  they  heard  about  this 
rumpus.  They'd  think  it  might  happen  again  any 
minute  and  they'd  remain  away  in  a  body — and 
they'd  keep  father  and  the  boys  away  too.  Get 
that  straight." 

—  80  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"There's  something  in  it,  I  guess,"  opined  Jimmy 
slowly. 

"You  put  your  money  three  ways  on  that.  You've 
got  a  new  job  tonight,  mister  man.  You've  got  to 
forget  about  putting  things  in  the  papers.  It's  up 
to  you  to  keep  something  out  for  a  change." 

"Maybe  somebody'll  blab  the  whole  thing." 

"I've  issued  orders  to  have  everyone  instructed 
to  give  an  imitation  of  a  tongue-tied  clam,  but  so 
dog-goned  many  people  were  in  on  this  that  it's 
pretty  certain  there'll  be  a  leak  somewhere.  That's 
where  you  come  in.'' 

"What  can  I  do?"  inquired  the  press  agent  rue- 
fully. He  was  plainly  displeased  with  the  vista 
opened  up  by  his  superior. 

"You  can  do  every  little  thing  there  is  to  do," 
returned  McClintock  firmly.  "I  want  you  to  make 
a  personal  matter  of  this.  I  want  you  to  drop  into 
town  and  make  the  rounds  of  all  the  morning 
papers.  I  want  you  to  see  every  city  editor  and 
make  a  special  plea  to  have  the  thing  hushed  up. 
Tell  'em  it'll  ruin  us  for  the  summer  if  it  gets  out. 
Make  it  strong.  It's  going  to  be  the  acid  test  of 
how  useful  you  really  are  around  here.  String  'em 
along.  Let  'em  understand  that  you  won't  take  'no' 
for  an  answer.  I'm  going  to  dust  over  home  in  my 
car  for  a  clean-up  and  a  long,  dreamy  nap.  Good- 
night." 

Jimmy  started  to  expostulate,  but  he  stopped 
short  when  the  office  door  slamimed  in  his  face.  He 
stood  irresolutely  as  the  chug-chug  of  McClintock's 
—  81  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

machine  died  away  in  the  distance.  Then  he 
dropped  into  a  chair,  reached  for  a  pack  of  cigar- 
ettes on  the  table,  lit  one  and  indulged  himself  in 
painful  cogitation.  Under  ordinary  circumstances 
he  would  have  experienced  profound  physical  dis- 
comfort from  his  water-soaked  clothes  and  the  gen- 
eral feeling  of  stickiness  that  enveloped  him  from 
head  to  feet,  but  physical  feelings  were  matters  of 
slight  importance  to  him  at  the  moment.  The  dis- 
tress which  was  registered  upon  his  face  was  purely 
mental  in  its  origin,  but  it  was  intense  and  singu- 
larly disturbing.  He  felt  that  he  was  up  against 
the  hardest  job  of  his  life  and  he  could  see  no  way 
to  hurdle  what  seemed  to  be  the  insurmountable 
barriers  that  confronted  him. 

In  the  language  of  journalism  Jimlmy  "knew 
news."  He  knew  precisely  what  sort  of  an  incident 
or  happening  or  bit  of  romancing,  for  that  matter, 
would  appeal  to  the  trained  newspaper  executive 
as  worth  playing  up  and  precisely  the  sort  of  stuff 
that  would  be  passed  up.  By  all  the  tests  he  was 
familiar  with,  by  all  the  general  rules  and  regula- 
tions of  the  game,  the  story  of  the  jamboree  of  the 
savage  gentlemen  from  the  far-flung  isles  of  the 
Pacific,  of  their  attempt  to  raid  the  park,  of  the 
battle  between  them  and  the  guards  and  of  their 
final  defeat  was  one  of  the  biggest  bits  of  "feature 
news"  that  had  transpired  in  or  about  New  York 
that  summer. 

If  it  had  "leaked"  into  any  newspaper  office  he 
knew  there  was  about  as  much  chance  of  his  keep- 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

ing  it  out  of  print  by  making  a  personal  plea,  as 
there  would  be  of  suppressing  the  announcement 
of  the  engagement  of  a  daughter  of  the  president 
of  the  United  States  to  the  Prince  of  Wales.  If  it 
hadn't  "leaked"' — and  there  was  a  fair  chance  that 
it  hadn't — because  of  the  state  of  the  weather — he 
was  painfully  aware  of  the  fact  that  by  calling  on 
the  city  editors  in  person  and  asking  them  not  to 
use  it  he  would  simply  be  handing  them  a  tip  on 
which  they  would  base  an  investigation.  The  story 
was  decidedly  too  good  to  be  hushed  up  by  any 
plaintive  wail  about  "ruining  our  business." 

He  would  have  mentioned  all  of  these  things 
to  McClintock  if  the  latter  hadn't  made  such  an 
abrupt  departure.  He  told  himself  now  that  even  if 
he  had  been  able  to  voice  them  the  manager 
wouldn't  have  comprehended  the  impossible  nature 
of  the  task  he  had  so  casually  mapped  out.  Folks 
who  haven't  smelt  the  smell  of  the  paste-pot  and 
heard  the  presses  roar  usually  have  the  weirdest 
sort  of  naive  notions  concerning  just  what  and  just 
what  cannot  be  done  in  the  way  of  either  inserting 
news  in  the  columns  of  a  great  metropolitan  daily 
or  keeping  it  out. 

"The  acid  test" — Jimmy  kept  remembering  these 
three  words  and  the  oftener  they  recurred  to  him 
the  more  distressed  he  became.  He  sat  hunched 
up  in  his  chair  looking  out  into  the  pouring  rain 
and  consuming  cigarettes  at  a  most  alarming  rate. 
At  about  the  middle  of  the  sixth  cirgarette  he 
straightened  up;  at  the  beginning  of  the  seventh 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

he  arose  and  began  to  pace  the  floor  while  a  new 
idea  slowly  unfolded  in  his  active  mind;  when  he 
was  two  puffs  into  the  eighth  he  flung  it  into  a 
corner  with  a  resolute  sweep  of  his  arm,  dived  for 
the  telephone,  called  up  "Beekman  4,000,"  and  im- 
patiently joggled  the  hook  until  a  response  came. 

"Hello,  World?''  he  said  jerkily,  "give  me  the  city 
desk  .  .  .  hello  .  .  .  city  desk?  .  .  .  Who  is  that? 
McCarthy?  .  .  .  Say,  Mr.  McCarthy,  this  is  Mar- 
tin of  Jollyland — Martin — M-A-R-T-I-N — publicity 
director  of  Jollyland — raining  here  ?  You  betcha — 
say,  I've  got  something  pretty  good  for  you  .  .  . 
hot  stuff.  ...  Be  on  the  look-out  for  it,  will  you? 
— Dope? — No,  sir,  this  is  the  real  goods.  No  fool- 
ing— on  the  level — you  can  expect  it  before  mid- 
night. Good-bye." 

In  the  next  ten  minutes  Jimmy,  in  a  frenzy  of 
feverish  haste,  called  up  the  city  desks  of  all  the 
other  morning  papers  and  repeated  practically  the 
same  message  to  each.  Then  he  ordered  three 
messenger  boys  to  report  to  him  in  half  an  hour, 
stuck  six  sheets  of  carbon  between  seven  long 
sheets  of  copy  paper,  inserted  the  numerous  layers 
in  his  typewriter  and  began  to  pound  out,  with 
ever  increasing  speed,  a  narrative  that  was  to  either 
make  or  break  him. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  an  office  boy 
dropped  a  long  manilla  envelope  marked  "NEWS—- 
RUSH" on  the  desk  in  front  of  Larry  McCarthy, 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

night  city  editor  of  the  World.  The  early  mail  edi- 
tion had  gone  to  press  ten  minutes  before  and 
McCarthy  had  just  come  up  for  air  for  a  brief 
interval  before  plunging  into  the  final  activities  of 
the  night.  The  tension  had  relaxed  and  he  was 
joking  with  the  magaging  editor  who  had  stopped 
to  give  a  few  parting  instructions  on  his  way  home. 

McCarthy  tore  the  envelope  open  almost  uncon- 
sciously as  he  went  on  talking  and  unfolded  the 
four  long  sheets  of  paper  which  it  contained,  sheets 
covered  with  closely  written  typewritten  matter. 
His  gaze  drifted  carelessly  to  the  top  page  where 
it  lingered  as  something  seemed  immediately  to  in- 
terest hiniv  A  cynical  smile  began  to  play  over  his 
features  as  he  read.  Presently  it  broadened  into 
something  more  mellow  and  human.  Then  he  burst 
into  hearty  laughter. 

"Shades  of  Tody  Hamilton,"  he  chortled.  "Here's 
the  last  word  in  hysterical  romance.  This  fellow 
makes  'em  all  look  like  pikers.  He  called  me  up  on 
the  phone  to  tell  it  was  hot  stuff.  Well,  it  cer- 
tainly is.  It  certainly  is." 

"What  is  it  ?'*  questioned  the  managing  editor. 

"It's  a  pipe  dream  by  a  bright  young  gentleman 
who  seems  to  be  trying  to  make  a  living  by  getting 
pieces  in  the  paper  for  Jollyland.  He  must  come 
from  some  place  in  the  tall,  tall  grass  if  he  labors 
under  the  delusion  that  he  can  put  anything  as  raw 
as  this  over  on  a  New  York  paper.  I'll  give  him 
credit,  though.  It's  a  masterpiece  of  its  kind.  If 
someone  ever  starts  a  press  agent's  school  this 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

could  be  used  verbatim  as  a  horrible  example  of  the 
kind  of  a  contribution  not  to  send  out. 
Just  listen  to  this  heading: 

BLOODY  UPRISING  BY 
SOUTH  SEA  ISLANDERS 
AT  JOLLYLAND  QUELLED 

BELIEVED  TO  BE  RESULT 

OF  BOLSHEVIK  PLOT 


Maddened  Savages  Armed  With 
Spears  and  War  Clubs  Run 
Amuck  and  Attempt  to  Take 
Possession  of  Park. 


WHISKERED  RUSSIAN  SEEN 
ACTING  SUSPICIOUSLY 


"Isn't  that  immense?"  went  on  McCarthy.  "Can 
you  tie  the  colossal  nerve  of  that  fellow  sending  a 
thing  like  that  out  ?  Get  his  opening  paragraph : 

"  'Maddened  with  a  thirst  for  human  blood  and 
believed  to  be  acting  under  instructions  from  a  Bol- 
shevik agitator  who  was  seen  prowling  about  in 
the  early  evening  186  naked  savages  from  the  South 
Sea  Islands  made  a  desperate  attempt  last  night  to 
mlassacre  all  the  whites  in  Jollyland,  the  gigantic 
summer  park  on  Coney  Island.  Giving  utterance  to 
—  86-* 


blood-curdling  cries  of  vengeance  and  undaunted 
by  the  driving  rain  which  was  falling  at  the  time 
they  made  an  attempt  to  break  out  of  the  village, 
where  they  give  daily  exhibitions  of  their  quaint 
and  curious  native  customs,  and  were  held  in  check 
by  the  park  attendants  only  after  a  wild  and  furi- 
ous struggle  lasting  for  nearly  half  an  hour!  ..." 

The  managing  editor  laughed  uproariously. 

"The  poor  old  Bolsheviki,"  he  chuckled.  "Even 
the  press  agents  are  using  'em.  That  story's  cer- 
tainly a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene.  I'd  like  to  meet 
that  young  fellow.  He'd  make  an  interesting 
study." 

The  telephone  bell  on  McCarthy's  desk  rang  just 
then  and  the  city  editor  reached  for  the  receiver. 

"Hello,"  he  shouted.  "Yes— McCarthy— yes,  I 
got  one,  too — it's  a  bird — we've  just  had  the  best 
laugh  of  the  month  over  it — most  sublime  imagina- 
tion uncovered  since  Dante — you  bet!" 

"That's  Carlton  of  the  Gazette — night  desk  man,'' 
he  said  as  he  hung  up.  "He's  got  a  great  sense  of 
humor.  Wanted  to  know  if  I'd  had  this  and  offered 
to  send  me  his  copy  if  I'd  been  forgotten." 

He  crumpled  Jimmy's  composition  up  in  a  ball 
and  tossed  it  in  the  big  waste-basket  at  his  side 
as  a  boy  slipped  him  a  first  copy  of  the  mail  edition 
wet  from  the  press. 


Chapter  Eleven 

The  rain  ceased  falling  at  midnight.  The  moon 
emerged  from  behind  a  bank  of  sombre  clouds  and 
threw  a  silvery  radiance  over  the  weird  and  won- 
derful architecture  of  Jollyland.  Dozens  of  the  con- 
cessionaires and  their  employees  who  elected  to  live 
in  the  park  throughout  the  summer  and  who  had 
been  penned  in  all  day  by  the  downpour  came  out 
for  a  breath  of  air  and  a  stroll  along  the  broad 
esplanade.  Among  them  was  Signer  Antonio 
Amado,  who  sauntered  out  of  his  living  quarters 
smoking  a  long  cheroot  and  smiling  a  wicked  smile. 
He  was  still  inwardly  chuckling  at  the  success  of 
his  little  plot  and  he  had  consumed  a  most  particu- 
lar bottle  of  a  most  particular  wine  in  proper  cele- 
bration of  his  achievement.  The  Signer's  attention 
was  attracted  by  a  conversation  between  two  of 
the  special  night  watchmen  who  were  chatting  in 
front  of  the  tortuous  roller  coaster  known  as  the 
Belvidere  Bend.  He  slipped  into  a  shadow  to  listen. 

"Did  he  give  you  orders  not  to  say  a  word?"  one 
of  the  men  was  saying. 

"He  did  that !"  replied  the  other.  "Shure  it's  try- 
in'  hard  they  are  to  keep  the  thing  out  of  the 
papers.  They're  afraid  it'll  put  the  place  on  the 
blink,  and  faith,  I  think  they're  right.  It's  mesel' 
—  88  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

that  won't  be  breathin*  a  word  of  it  to  a  livin*  soul 
from  now  to  the  risin'  of  the  judgment  dawn/' 

The  Signer  tip-toed  noiselessly  around  a  corner 
and  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  his  concession. 
Three  minutes  later  he  was  talking  to  the  World  on 
his  private  telephone  and  trying  to  make  a  tired 
operator  understand  what  he  was  saying. 

"I  havea  de  news,"  he  shouted,  "de  beega  news — 
de  damned  beega  news — de  beega,  besta  news  you 
ever  hear —  Who?  Wella  givea  me  data  man 
McCart'— Hello,  eesa  dat  McCart'?  .  .  .  Say,  Mc- 
Cart',  deesa  eesa  Signor  Antonio  Amado  who  maka 
de  lions  jumpa — eh? — I  say  I  maka  de  lions  jumpa 
at  Jollyland, — well,  meester,  deres  one  beega  time 
down  at  Jollyland  tonighta — one  beega  time — dey 
eesa  try  to  keepa  it  outa  de  papers — but  I  tella  you 
— deesa  wilda  men  from  de  South  Seas  dey  raisa 
hella — dey  hava  beega  fight — dey — what  you  say? 
Sect  on  a  tack  ? — I  no  sect  on  a  tack — hello — hello." 

But  only  echo  answered.  McCarthy  had  hung  up. 
The  Signor  swore  a  large,  round,  succulent  oath 
and  went  to  bed. 


Jimmy  was  at  his  office  at  the  customary  hour 
the  next  morning.  He  hadn't  slept  all  night  and 
he  was  dog-tired,  but  his  soul  was  filled  with  satis- 
faction. His  ruse  had  worked.  Not  a  single  paper 
had  carried  a  line  about  the  fracas.  He  had  taxied 
over  to  Manhattan  and  had  kept  vigil  along  Park 
Row  until  the  final  editions  appeared.  Then  he  had 
chartered  a  touring  car  and  had  taken  a  long  ride 
-89- 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

along  the  Long  Island  roads  until  it  was  time  for 
him  to  report  for  duty.  He  found  McQintock  on 
the  job  already.  The  manager  was  in  a  jubilant 
mood. 

"Well,"  remarked  the  latter  cordially,  "you  stood 
the  test,  all  right.  I've  got  to  give  you  credit.  I 
didn't  think  you'd  get  away  with  it,  to  tell  you  the 
gospel  truth.  Pretty  decent  bunch  after  all,  I  guess. 
Did  any  of  'em  put  up  much  of  an  argument?" 

"Any  of  who?"  inquired  Jimmy. 

"Why  the  city  editors,  of  course.  You  saw  'em! 
all  personally,  didn't  you?" 

Jimmy  smiled  a  little  guiltly,  coughed  nervously 
and  then  laughed  quietly. 

"I  might  as  well  confess,  Mr.  McClintock,"  he 
said  finally.  "I  didn't  see  any  of  'em.  I  tried  out  a 
new  scheme  and  it  worked  like  a  little  old  Liberty 
motor.  I  figured  that  the  story  was  altogether  too 
good  to  keep  out  by  any  personal  visit  and  I  was 
afraid,  anyway,  that  if  any  of  the  papers  hadn't 
been  tipped  off  my  going  in  with  an  argument 
would  start  'em  out  hot-foot  after  the  yarn.  So  I 
wrote  it  and  sent  it  out  myself." 

"You  sent  it  out  yourself"  gasped  McClintock. 
"I  don't  get  you.  Slip  me  a  blue-print." 

"I  took  a  big  chance  and  I  got  away  with  it," 
replied  Jimmy.  "I  knew  that  there  isn't  a  chance 
any  more  of  anything  that  a  press  agent  writes  get- 
tin*  into  the  news  columns  of  a  New  York  paper. 
They've  been  shy  on  that  kind  of  stuff  for  a  great 
many  years.  So  I  said  to  myself  that  if  I  wrote 
—  po  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

out  this  yarn  like  as  if  I  was  sotrie  kind  of  a  rank 
amateur,  dressin'  it  up  with  a  lot  of  flossy  adjec- 
tives and  makin'  it  read  so  that  it  sounded  like  a 
foolish  pipe-dream  they'd  size  it  up  as  pure  fake 
and  throw  it  in  the  little  old  waste-basket  Then 
if  any  reporter  or  anyone  else  did  shoot  in  a  tip  on 
the  story  they'd  figure  out  someone  had  been  tryin* 
to  bunk  him  too,  and  would  pass  it  up.  I  made 
it  good  and  strong,  and  it  looks  like  they  fell  for  it 
hook,  line  and  sinker.  And  say,  I  know  somethin' 
I  never  knew  before.  If  I  ever  lose  out  in  this  game 
I  can  get  a  job  writin'  a  series  for  the  Boy's  Nickle 
Library." 

McClintock  patted  him  affectionately  on  the  back. 

"All  I've  got  to  say,  Jimmy/'  he  remarked  en- 
thusiastically, "is  that  you're  a  great  little  press 
agent." 

"I'm  a  great  little  sup-press  agent,  you  mean," 
responded  the  other  with  a  grin. 


Chapter  Twelve 

One  morning  two  weeks  after  the  summer  season 
at  Jollyland  had  ended  Jimmy  found  himself  in  a 
state  of  moody  dejection  in  the  club  car  of  a  fast 
express  train  en  route  from  Washington  to  Balti- 
more. He  dropped  into  a  chair  in  the  rear  end  of 
the  car  and  let  himself  slowly  slide  forward  until 
his  shoulder  blades  nearly  touched  the  seat.  He 
swung  one  leg  over  the  other,  wedged  both  hands 
into  his  trousers  pockets  and  puffed  viciously  at  the 
somewhat  frayed  cigarette  which  hung  from  one 
corner  of  his  mouth. 

Somehow  or  other  his  brain  wasn't  functioning 
properly.  His  imagination  wasn't  yielding  up  the 
customary  assortment  of  bizarre  ideas  and  freak 
suggestions  from  which  he  always  was  able  to  se- 
lect one  particular  inspiration  to  serve  the  need  of 
the  moment.  To  make  the  situation  more  exasper- 
ating the  last  words  of  Meyerfield  kept  bobbing  up 
in  his  train  of  thought.  He  could  see  and  hear  the 
manager  of  the  famous  "Meyerfield  Frolics"  as 
he  had  stood  in  the  lobby  of  the  New  National  The- 
atre in  Washington  the  night  before,  smoking  the 
inevitable  cigar  and  talking  in  a  loud  booming 
voice. 

"Remember/'    Meyerfield    had    announced    with 
great  impressiveness,"  I  want  you  to  smear  us  all 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

over  the  front  page  of  every  paper  in  Baltimore. 
We've  never  played  the  'Frolics'  there  and  we've 
got  to  have  'em  properly  introduced.  I'm  depending 
upon  you  to  plant  something  that  will  stir  that  town 
up  like  an  earthquake.  Get  the  girls  into  it  some 
way.  They're  the  best  card  we  have." 

As  Jimmy  slouched  in  his  seat  the  memory  of  a 
hundred  spectacular  exploits  which  he  had  engi- 
neered swam  through  his  mind,  but  he  couldn't 
fasten  on  a  new  idea  or  on  anything  that  hadn't 
been  worked  and  re-worked.  He  was  just  begin- 
ning his  first  season  with  Meyerfield  and  that 
worthy  was  a  showman  who  expected  results. 

A  memory  picture  of  Lolita  flashed  into  his  mind 
and  with  it  came  the  realizing  sense  that  her  silence 
was  perhaps  responsible  for  his  present  frame  of 
mind.  Since  he  said  good-bye  to  her  in  New  York 
a  week  before  to  go  ahead  of  the  "Frolics'''  there 
had  been  only  two  letters  from  her,  letters  written 
on  the  first  two  days  of  their  separation.  In  the 
last  she  had  mentioned,  with  great  enthusiasm,  that 
she  had  signed  a  contract  to  play  a  tiny  part  with 
a  road  company  which  was  to  regale  the  theatre- 
goers of  the  small  towns  in  the  Middle  West  with 
a  chaste  little  farce  then  sensationally  successful  in 
New  York.  It  was  called  "Ursula's  Undies,"  and  it 
was  a  dainty  affair  designed  to  provoke  the  curi- 
osity of  that  type  of  male  who  carries  around  a 
pen-holder  with  a  little  glass-eye  piece  at  one  end. 
You  look  in  at  his  suggestion  (he's  sure  to  ask  you) 
and  you  behold  a  couple  of  large  and  lumpy  females 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

in  one-piece  bathing  suits  in  what  is  alleged  to  be  a 
scene  suggestive  of  Oriental  abandon.  "Ursula's 
Undies"  wasn't  even  as  wicked  as  that,  but  its  ad- 
vertising manager  distinctly  sought  to  convey  the 
impression  that  it  was  too  terrible  for  words  and 
Jimmy  had  been  moved  to  remonstrate  with  Lolita 
by  means  of  a  telegram  in  which  he  had  rather 
peremptorily  directed  her  to  throw  up  her  job  and 
"get  into  something  decent" 

There  had  been  no  reply  to  this  wire  nor  to  a 
frantic  series  of  letters  which  had  followed  it  and 
Jimmy  had  begun  to  fancy  that  morning  that  all 
was  lost.  He  turned  and  looked  out  at  the  endless 
procession  of  fleeting  telegraph  poles  and  at  the 
dreary  landscape  apparently  afloat  in  a  shimmering 
haze  of  mist  which  had  followed  a  drizzling  rain. 
He  was  aroused  from  his  reveries  by  a  pleasant 
voice,  a  voice  with  something  a  bit  "precious'*  in 
its  soft  cadences,  a  voice  that  betokened  a  rather 
too  thick  overlay  of  what  Jimmy  scornfully  called 
"culchaw." 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Martin,"  said  the  voice. 
"What's  the  matter?  You  seem  sicklied  o'er  with 
the  pale  cast  of  thought." 

Jimmy  turned  and  recognized  the  speaker,  a  tall 
young  man  who  wore  enormous  tortoise  shell  spec- 
tacles, an  impeccable  two  button  cutaway  and  a 
smile  in  which  there  was  a  touch  of  supercilious 
superiority.  He  was  one  of  Jimmy's  pet  aversions, 
a  highbrow  press  agent — J.  Herbert  Denby  by 
name — who  was  "doing  a  little  special  literary 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

work,"  as  he  himself  described  it,  ahead  of  a  com- 
pany that  was  presenting  a  repertoire  of  dank  and 
morbid  Scandinavian  plays  on  tour.  He  had  been 
associate  editor  of  a  literary  magazine  and  had 
written  a  number  of  choice  essays  on  what  he 
called  the  "new  movement  in  the  theatre''  which 
had  been  published  in  more  or  less  obscure  period- 
icals and  which  had  been  undoubtedly  unread  by  a 
vast  multitude  of  persons.  He  was  now  enjoying 
his  first  experience  in  the  business  world  of  the 
theatre  and  he  had  met  Jimmy  a  few  nights  before 
in  Washington.  His  abysmal  ignorance  of  practi- 
calities had  aroused  a  sympathetic  feeling  in  the 
latter  which  had  been  later  completely  dissipated 
by  his  patronizing  manner.  His  company  was  to 
be  Jimmy's  "opposition"  in  Baltimore,  and  he  was 
journeying  there  on  the  same  errand  that  Jimmy 
was. 

"Good  morning,"  grunted  Jimmy.  "What's  that 
you  say?" 

"I  say  that  you  seem  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale 
cast  of  thought,"  responded  Mr.  Denby,  sitting 
down  in  the  next  chair  with  great  deliberation  and 
carefully  disposing  of  the  tails  of  his  coat.  "By 
that  I  mean  that  you  seem  lost  in  abstraction,  as 
it  were.'' 

"Not  as  it  were,"  replied  Jimmy.  "As  it  is.  I'm 
certainly  lost  in  abstraction  all  right,  all  right,  only 
I  never  called  it  that  before.  The  old  idea  box 
ain't  workin'  right.  It's  back  firm'  on  me." 

"What's  the  problem?"  asked  Mr.  Denby  judi- 

—  95  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

cially.  "Maybe  I  can  be  of  some  slight  assistance. 
We  represent  opposite  poles  of  the  world  of  the 
theatre,  but  an  interchange  of  thought  may  clear 
up  the  situation." 

"The  problem  is  one  that  can't  be  cleared  up  by 
a  flossy  little  piece  of  writin'  marked  'not  dupli- 
cated in  your  city,'  old  scout,"  replied  Jimmy  dis- 
consolately. "Essays  ain't  any  more  use  in  this 
situation  than  curry  combs  in  a  garage.'' 

"But  perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  venture  a  prac- 
tical suggestion  that  might  be  of  value,"  persisted 
the  other. 

"Practical  suggestion!"  snorted  Jim!my.  "Not  a 
chance.  You  fellows  are  all  right,  I  guess,  for  this 
Ibsen  stuff,  but  you  don't  know  anything  about 
girl  shows,  not  a  single,  little  thing." 

"I  presume  you  mean  the  chorus  girls,"  sug- 
gested Mr.  Denby.  "Do  you  wish  to  use  them  in 
some  way  for  publicity  purposes?'* 

"You're  talking,"  said  Jimmy.  "I  not  only  wish  to 
I've  got  to.  I've  got  to  smear  'em  over  the  front 
pages  of  all  the  papers  in  Baltimjore  to  keep  my  job. 
And,  believe  me,  Baltimore  is  some  tight  town  when 
it  comes  to  handin*  out  space  for  the  showshops. 
The  lid's  on  and  you've  got  to  murder  someone  to 
get  it  off." 

Mr.  J.  Herbert  Denby  cocked  his  head  at  a 
thoughtful  angle  and  gazed  judicially  through  his 
spectacles. 

"It  m/ightn't  be  a  bad  idea."  he  said  finally,  weigh- 
ing every  word  carefully,  "to  get  a  delegation  of 
-96- 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

prominent  citizens  to  meet  them  at  the  station  with 
automobiles.  Had  you  thought  of  that?" 

Jimmy  turned  a  look  of  concentrated  scorn  on 
him  that  would  have  caused  an  ordinary  mortal  to 
shrivel  up  and  pass  quietly  and  unobtrusively  into 
a  state  of  complete  dissolution,  but  it  had  no  such 
effect  on  J.  Herbert.  He  simply  smiled  a  superior 
smile  and  awaited  an  answer. 

"And  it  would  be  a  good  stunt,  too,"  snapped 
Jimmy,  "to  get  the  Governor  of  the  State  to  dance 
the  tango  with  Madeline  La  Verne  in  the  waiting 
room  of  the  station  and  to  arrange  to  have  the  pro- 
fessors at  the  university  carry  all  the  girls  on  their 
backs  up  to  the  hotel.  For  the  love  of  Mike,  talk 
sense,  man." 

"Of  course,  they  would  have  to  be  extremely 
prominent  citizens,"  went  on  J.  Herbert  Denby, 
utterly  ignoring  Jimmy's  biting  sarcasm,  "the  lead- 
ing men  of  the  city.  It  might  be  possible  to  ar- 
range to  have  them  go  over  to  Washington  in  their 
cars  and  bring  the  young  ladies  to  Baltimore  in 
them  instead  of  just  meeting  them  at  the  station. 
That  would  add  a  touch  of  piquancy  to  the  proceed- 
ings that " 

He  got  no  farther,  for  Jimmy  choked  off  further 
utterance  by  springing  up  and  grabbing  both  his 
hands  in  wild  exultation,  almost:  upsetting  the 
porter  who  was  emptying  a  bottle  of  mineral  water 
for  the  man  in  the  next  seat. 

"You've  got  it.  you  old  highbrow  son-of-a-gun," 
he  shouted.  "You  don't  know  how  good  it  is  your- 

—  97  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

self.  You  know  that  old  stuff  about  'and  a  child 
shall  lead  them  on.'  Well,  that's  you.  No  offense, 
mind  you,  no  offense,  but  you  are  a  child  in  this  line. 
I've  got  a  notion  to  kiss  you  right  out  in  public." 

J.  Herbert  backed  away  and  almost  landed  in  the 
lap  of  a  stout  party  who  was  reading  a  paper. 

"Please  don't,"  he  murmured.  "Please  don't,  I 
pray.  It  would  embarrass  me  fearfully.'* 

The  stout  party  turned  to  his  companion  and 
spoke  quietly  under  the  cover  of  his  hand. 

"Nuts,"  he  confided.    "Pure  Brazilian." 

Jimmy  bade  J.  Herbert  Denby  a  most  enthusiastic 
farewell  at  the  station  in  Baltimore 

"There's  a  dinner  coming  to  you,  old  George  B. 
Bookworm,"  he  shouted  as  he  jumped  into  a  taxi- 
cab,  "a  nice  young  dinner  with  a  little  grape  on  the 
sidelines  and  no  stops  for  way-stations  when  we  get 
our  feet  under  the  table.  See  you  later,  old  dear." 


Chapter   Thirteen 

Jimmy  arrived  at  the  Lyric  Theatre  in  that  glow 
of  exultant  feeling  which  every  great  artist  should 
feel  when  driven  to  accomplishment  by  the  urge  of 
a  great  imaginative  idea.  He  dashed  through  the 
lobby,  pushed  his  way  through  a  swinging  door  ad- 
joining the  ticket  window  marked  "Manager's  Of- 
fice'* and  leaned  over  a  desk  at  which  was  seated  a 
slender  man  with  what  might  be  called  the  old- 
young  face,  a  face  on  which  disillusionment  and 
blase  boredom  seemed  indelibly  stamped.  This  was 
George  Seymour,  manager  of  the  theatre,  popularly 
known  among  traveling  press  agents  as  the  "human 
icicle"  because  of  his  inborn  and  inherent  distaste 
for  humanity  as  a  whole  and  for  publicity  men  in 
particular.  Mr.  Seymour  was  going  over  a  set  of 
plans  for  the  remodeling  of  the  entrance  of  the 
theatre  with  an  architect,  and  seemed  supremely 
busy,  but  this  little  detail  didn't  phase  Jimmy. 

"Well,  Georgie,  old  man,"  he  said  breezily,  "here 
we  are  back  again  and  this  time  we've  brought  the 
big  idea  along  for  a  little  visit.  I  want  you  to  meet 
him." 

He  slipped  his  hat  down  on  the  blueprint  in  front 
of  Mr.  Seymour,  completely  obliterating  the  grace- 
ful outlines  of  the  architect's  new  front  elevation 

—  99  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

and  swung  himself  up  to  a  seat  on  the  edge  of  the 
desk.  A  dangerous  glint  crept  into  Mr.  Seymour's 
eyes  as  he  unconsciously  fingered  a  heavy  brass 
paperweight  to  the  right  of  Jimmy's  hat. 

"Perhaps/*  he  said  in  a  voice  whose  quiet  in- 
tensity was  deadly  in  its  menace,  "perhaps  you  may 
not  have  noticed  that  I'm  busy,  Mr.  Martin.  I'm 
not  interested  in  any  big  ideas  just  now  except  the 
one  I'm  discussing  with  this  gentleman." 

"Forget  that,"  said  Jimmy  jauntily,  pulling  a 
cigar  out  of  his  pocket  and  lighting  it  while  Mr. 
Seymour  glowered  at  him.  "That's  just  an  old 
blueprint  for  some  improvement  or  other  that  can 
wait.  My  big  idea  can't  wait.  I've  got  to  put  it 
over  right  now.  And  you've  got  to  help  me/' 

Mr.  Seymour's  architect,  a  precise  man  unused 
to  such  unceremonious  business  methods,  laughed 
quietly. 

"I  guess,  Seymour,"  he  said,  "you'd  better  hear 
what  he  has  to  say.  I've  got  a  few  minutes  to  spare. 
I'll  go  into  the  next  room.  Persistence  seems  to  be 
this  gentleman's  middle  name." 

Mr.  Seymour,  loathe  to  give  in,  looked  around 
helplessly.  Jimmy  leaned  over  and  deftly  flecked 
a  bit  of  cigar  ashes  from  the  lapel  of  the  manager's 
coat,  a  manoeuvre  which  sent  his  stock  down  ten 
points  more. 

"Stick  around,  old  mjan,*'  he  said  pleasantly  to  the 
architect.  "I  don't  mind  if  you  hear  what  I've  got 
to  say  and  I'm  sure  Georgie  won't  either." 

"Don't  Georgie  me,  my  friend,"  replied  Seymour, 
—  700  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"state  your  business  and  get  it  over  with.  The  only 
way  I  can  get  rid  of  you  without  calling  for  the 
police,  I  suppose,  is  to  listen  to  you." 

"Well,  it's  this  way,''  said  Jimmie  eagerly.  "I've 
got  to  smear  the  Frolics  girls  all  over  the  front  page 
of  one  of  your  newspapers,  and  I've  got  an  idea  how 
to  do  it.  Now  don't  stop  and  pull  that  'it  can't  be 
done'  gag  on  me.  That's  the  pet  line  of  every  house 
manager  from  Bangor,  Maine,  to  San  Diego.  Every 
time  you  spring  a  new  one  they  throw  up  their 
mitts  and  tell  you  that  'it  can't  be  done/  Clean  the 
sand  out  of  your  running  gear  and  go  along  with 
me  on  this  one  for  once  in  your  life." 

Mr.  Seymour  raised  a  protesting  hand  and  tried 
to  break  in,  but  Jimmy  rattled  on. 

"I'm  going  to  pull  a  story,"  he  continued,  "that 
a  bunch  of  prominent  members  of  the  Washington 
Automobile  Club  are  going  to  take  all  the  girls  for 
a  joy  ride  next  Sunday  morning  to  a  point  midway 
between  Washington  and  Baltimore  and  that  an- 
other bunch  of  leading  citizens — members  of  the 
automobile  club  of  your  own  fair  city  are  going 
to  pick  'em  up  there  in  their  cars  and  bring  'em  into 
town.  Ain't  it  a  great  little  idea?" 

A  sardonic  smile  brightened  the  face  of  the 
cynical  Mr.  Seymour. 

"It's  certainly  a  great  little  idea,  Mr.  Martin,"  he 
said,  "and  I  have  no  doubt  that  all  the  city  editors 
in  town  will  be  so  grateful  to  you  for  letting  them 
in  on  the  story  that  they  will  have  gold  medals 
struck  off"  comjmemorating  the  event." 
—  JOJ  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

The  underlying  sarcasm  of  this  speech  did  not 
check  Jimmy's  enthusiasm. 

"Of  course,  someone  will  have  to  stand  for  the 
story,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  going  up  cold  to  any 
paper  with  a  yarn  like  that  and  expect  'em  to  fall 
for  it,  without  some  confirmation.  What  I  want 
you  to  do  is  to  tip  me  off  to  some  friend  of  yours, 
some  nice,  agreeable  party  who's  a  member  of  the 
club  and  whose  name  carries  a  lot  of  class,  a  party 
who's  a  good  enough  scout  to  help  a  fellow  in  a 
pinch.  I'll  talk  him  into  standing  for  the  yarn,  and 
slipping  me  a  list  of  names.  Can't  you  suggest 
someone?" 

Mr.  Seymour's  eyes  gleamed  maliciously.  He 
leaned  over  and  grasped  Jimmy's  arm  in  a  pretense 
of  great  friendliness. 

"I  know  just  the  man/'  he  said,  "just  the  man." 

"Well,  spill  his  name,"  replied  Jimmy.  "I'll  get 
to  him  before  lunch." 

"Donald  McDonald's  the  man,"  said  Mr.  Sey- 
mour. "He's  the  vice-president  of  the  club  and  the 
president  of  the  Merchant's  Trust  Company.  He's 
a  jovial,  jolly,  good  fellow  who'd  be  tickled  to  death 
to  stand  for  a  stunt  like  that.  Just  mention  my 
name.  There's  no  doubt  in  the  world,  but  what  he'll 
help  us  out.  Is  there,  Larabee?" 

Mr.  Larabee,  the  architect,  who  was  having  a 
desperate  time  trying  to  smother  a  chuckle,  as- 
sumed an  expression  of  great  wisdom  and  re- 
marked: 

— 102  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"You  couldn't  have  suggested  a  better  choice, 
Seymour.*' 

"His  office  is  on  the  eleventh  floor  of  the  Mer- 
chants' Trust  building,"  broke  in  Seymour.  "Two 
blocks  down  and  one  block  to  the  right." 

Jimmy  jumped  down  from  the  desk,  jabbed  on 
his  hat  and  started  for  the  door. 

"Thanks,  fellows,  for  the  tip,"  he  called  back  over 
his  shoulder.  "I'll  see  you  in  a  little  while." 

As  the  door  swung  after  him  Seymour  turned  to 
Larabee  and  burst  into  a  Mephistophelian  laugh 
that  would  have  been  a  credit  to  the  late  Lewis 
Morrison. 

"Larabee,"  he  said.  "They'll  pick  him  up  in  pieces 
down  on  Eleventh  street  just  two  minutes  after 
he  hits  McDonald's  office.  Can  you  imagine  any- 
one going  to  that  old  boy  with  a  fool  proposition 
like  that?  Can  you  imagine  it!'* 

"You  certainly  picked  the  last  man  in  the  world," 
agreed  Larabee.  "Chorus  girls  and  automobiles  to 
meet  'emi  and  a  theatrical  press  agent.  My  God, 
Seymour,  I  really  believe  he  won't  live  long  enough 
to  even  tell  the  doctor  his  name." 


It  was  mid-afternoon  when  Jim'my  Martin  re- 
turned to  the  Lyric  Theatre.  He  breezed  into 
George  Seymour's  office  with  a  grin  on  his  face  and 
an  air  of  assurance  that  rather  flabbergasted  the 
manager. 

"Well,  Georgie,"  he  said,  "you  certainly  gave  me 
the  right  dope.  I  landed  buttered  side  up.  Fine 
—  103  — 


'Fresh  Every  Hour 

fellow,  McDonald.  Great  personality.  Best  little 
old  scout  I've  met  in  years." 

"You  saw  him?"  gasped  Seymour  incredulously. 

"Saw  him?"  echoed  Jimmy.  "I  should  say  I  did. 
I  lunched  with  him  over  at  the  Bankers'  Club  and 
I've  been  out  for  a  ride  on  the  boulevard  with  him 
in  his  car.  Fixed  me  up  all  right  and  he's  going 
to  stand  for  everything.'* 

"What  brand  of  dope  is  that  you  use,  Martin?" 
inquired  the  manager  sarcastically.  "I'd  like  to 
recommend  it  to  some  of  my  friends." 

"Come  down  off  the  flying  rings,  Georgie,"  re- 
torted Jimmy.  "What  are  you  up  in  the  air  about? 
Didn't  you  sic  me  onto  him  and  didn't  he  run  to 
form  just  as  you  said  he  would.  How's  this  for  a 
reception  committee?" 

Jimmy  reached  in  his  coat  pocket  and  drew  out  a 
folded  piece  of  paper. 

"Some  class  to  that  bird,"  he  said.  "He  had  the 
little  old  stenographer  write  it  out  for  me.  Here's 
the  names :  Jonathan  Wilde,  president  of  the  Kewa- 
nee  Packing  Company ;  Judson  Davis,  secretary  and 
general  manager  of  the  Twistwool  Knitting  Com- 
pany; Horace  Chadwick,  president  of  the  Oyster- 
men's  First  National  Bank;  Col.  Hannibal  Round- 
tree,  president  of  the  Carrolton  Country  Club ;  Jef- 
ferson Tait,  retired  gentleman;  Henry  Quinby 
Blugsden,  Maximilian  Hendricks,  Marshall " 

"Stop,"  shouted  Seymour.  "You  mean  to  tell  me 
that  McDonald  gave  you  that  list  of  names  and 
said  he'd  stand  for  it?'' 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"You  can  play  that  three  ways,  Georgie,"  re- 
sponded Jimmy,  shoving  the  paper  under  the  other's 
nose.  "There's  the  list  on  his  own  personal  sta- 
tionery. This  is  the  reception  committee  that's 
going  to  motor  out  Sunday  morning  to  bring  our 
flossy  frails  into  your  beautiful  city.  At  least  my 
friend  McDonald  says  they  are  and  of  course,  I've 
got  to  take  his  word.  So  have  the  papers.  I  gather 
he's  some  important  person." 

"Of  course  he  is,"  replied  the  dazed  manager. 
"Of  course  he  is — one  of  the  biggest  citizens  in 
town.  And  that  list — why  that  list  just  reeks  with 
distinction.  I  can't  understand  it.  That  crowd 
meeting  chorus  girls?  Why  the  idea  is — well,  it's 
just  impossible.  That's  the  only  word!" 

"Gosh,  if  that's  the  way  you  feel  about  it  the 
darned  thing  must  be  going  to  develop  into  a  bear 
of  a  story.  Speaking  for  myself,  I  never  met  up 
with  old  James  K.  Impossible.  He  doesn't  belong 
to  any  of  my  clubs  and  whenever  I  think  I  see  him 
coming  I  duck  up  a  side  street." 

"If  you  get  any  paper  to  stand  for  that  story," 
said  Seymour,  "it'll  stir  up  the  whole  town." 

"That's  where  I  belong,"  replied  the  press  agent 
jauntily.  "Stirring  up  towns  is  one  of  the  best 
little  things  I  do.  Choose  your  exit  door,  Georgie. 
I'm  going  to  plant  this  yarn  tonight  and  the  in- 
tense excitement  will  begin  to  develop  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

He  swung  briskly  out  of  the  office  and  Seymour 
sat  down,  tried  to  figure  the  thing  out.  Somehow 
he  couldn't,  —705 . 


Nick  Jennings,  night  city  editor  of  the  Baltimore 
Bulletin,  stifled  a  yawn,  stretched  his  arms,  stood 
up  and  lounged  over  to  the  copy  desk.  He  was 
utterly  unlike  the  city  editor  of  fiction.  He  was  a 
short,  stocky  person  with  a  round  and  jovial  face 
and  there  wasn't  a  trace  of  the  fabulous  steely  glint 
in  his  grey  eyes. 

"Not  a  line  of  stuff  worth  sending  up,"  he  observed 
to  Tom  North,  the  head  copy-reader.  "Unless  some- 
thing breaks  the  local  end  of  the  old  sheet  tomor- 
row is  going  to  be  about  as  interesting  as  a  seed 
catalog.  I've  marked  Milligan's  story  on  the  food 
inspection  scandal  for  a  two  column  head,  but  it's 
pretty  dead  stuff.  Got  an  idea  ?" 

Tom  North  shook  his  head. 

"I  thought  for  a  minute  there  might  be  a  feature 
in  that  North  Side  Woman's  Club  resolution  pro- 
testing against  the  psycho-analysis  movement,"  he 
said,  "but  I  didn't  suggest  it  to  you  because  that 
Arline  Dupont  Maxwell  introduced  it.  That  dame 
can  cook  up  more  schemes  to  get  her  name  on  the 
front  page  than  any  three  prima  donnas  I  know  of. 
There  isn't  anything  else  that's  worth  wasting  good 
ink  on." 

The  city  editor  yawned  again  and  looked  at  the 
clock.  It  was  after  ten. 

— 106  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"It's  tough  turkey,'*  he  rejoined.  "I'll  bet  you 
there  was  more  news  stirring  out  in  Twisted  Twig, 
Oregon,  today  than  in  this  burg." 

An  office  boy  touched  him  on  the  arm  and  handed 
him  a  card.  He  looked  at  it,  hesitated  for  a  second 
or  two  and  then  remarked: 

"I'll  take  a  look  at  that  bird.    Send  him  in." 

He  turned  to  his  co-worker  again. 

"Zip  goes  another  resolution,''  he  said  with  a 
half-laugh.  "I'm  going  to  see  a  press  agent.  I'll 
take  any  kind  of  a  chance  on  a  night  like  this. 
Persistent  gink.  Sent  in  his  card  an  hour  ago  and 
I  turned  him  down  flat.  Now  he  sends  it  in  again 
marked  'absolutely  imperative  I  see  you — great 
story  with  a  local  angle.'  " 

He  had  just  settled  himself  again  at  his  desk 
when  Jimmy  Martin  swung  through  the  city  room 
nad  greeted  him  with  an  expansive  smile. 

"Well,  Mr.  Martin?"  grunted  Jennings  interrog- 
atively as  he  bent  over  a  page  of  typewritten  copy 
on  his  desk  in  simulation  of  great  pre-occupation. 

"Mr.  Jennings,"  began  Jimmy  eagerly,  "I've  got 
a  great  story  with  a  local  angle,  a  story  that'll  stir 
this  little  old  town  up  considerable  and  then  some/' 

"Uh,  uh,"  said  the  city  editor,  never  looking  up. 

There  wasn't  the  slightest  trace  of  interest  in 
Jennings'  attitude  and  Jimmy  felt  his  own  enthusi- 
asm flagging  for  just  a  moment.  Cold-blooded 
fish,  these  city  editors,  he  said  to  himself,  always 
afraid  someone  is  going  to  put  one  over  on  them. 

"You  see,  Mr.  Jennings,"  he  resumed,  "I'm  with 
— 107  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

Meyerfields'  Frolics.    We  play  the  Lyric  next  week 

and 

"I  saw  your  card/*  snapped  Jennings.  "What's 
the  finale?" 

"Well,  I  just  heard  tonight  that  the  Baltimore 
Automobile  Club  is  going  to  pull  off  a  little  private 
stunt  next  Sunday — sort  of  under  cover.  Some- 
one slipped  me  a  hot  tip.  I  made  the  chairman  of 
the  committee  in  charge  cough  up.  A  bunch  of  the 
prominent  members  are  going  to  pick  up  the  girls  of 
our  show  in  a  flock  of  cars  over  at  Annapolis  Junc- 
tion and  bring  'em  into  town.  It's  a  cooperative 
stunt  they're  pulling  off  with  the  Washington  club. 
The  fellows  from  the  capital  are  going  to  bring'  em 

as  far  as  the  Junction  and 

"Nothing  doing,"  broke  in  the  city  editor. 
"But  it  isn't  a  fake,''  persisted  Jimmy  eagerly, 
"it's  dead  on  the  level.    I've  got  the  names  of  the 
reception  committee  with  me.    The  chairman  had 
his  stenographer  write  them  out  for  me." 

He  shoved  his  typewritten  list  across  the  desk 
directly  under  Jennings'  hand.  The  latter  looked 
up  in  annoyance,  started  to  push  it  back,  caught 
the  name  on  the  letterhead  and  gave  the  paper  a 
cursory  glance.  He  looked  up  again. 

"Been  looking  through  Seymour's  copy  of  the 
Blue  Book,  eh?"  he  remarked  testily.  "Where'd 
you  dig  up  this  letter  head?" 

"I'm  telling  you  that  Mr.  McDonald  had  his  sten- 
ographer write  it  out  for  me.  I  don't  ask  you  to 
believe  me,  Mr.  Jennings.  Mr.  McDonald  said  you 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

could  call  him  up  before  eleven.    I'm  not  trying  to 
steer  you  wrong.'' 

The  fierce  intensity  of  Jimmy's  voice  and  manner 
caused  the  skeptical  Jennings  to  bore  him  with  a 
searching  look.  His  eyes  dropped  to  the  paper 
again.  He  skimmed  through  the  names.  What  if 
by  some  queer  quirk  the  story  was  really  true? 
Donald  McDonald,  Horace  Chadwick,  Col.  Round- 
tree  and  all  those  others  joy-riding  with  chorus 
girls  under  the  official  auspices  of  the  Automobile 
Club — why,  the  thing  would  rock  the  town  like  an 
earthquake!  And  the  fellow  had  said  McDonald 
would  verify  the  story.  Why  had  he  taken  a 
chance  and  said  that  if  it  wasn't  true?  It  was  an 
easy  matter  to  reach  McDonald.  He  looked  up 
warily. 

"Been  spilling  this  story  any  place  else?",  he 
asked. 

"Not  a  syllable.  It's  exclusive  for  you  if  you 
promise  to  use  it.  Of  course,  if  you  don't  I'll  have 
to  drop  in  over  at  the  Gazette  office.  It's  too  good 
to  waste." 

Jennings  seemed  to  look  through  Jimmy  for  a 
full  half  minute  while  he 'pondered  deeply. 

"Young  man,"  he  said  finally.  "I'm  going  to  in- 
vestigate this  little  yarn,  but  let  me  tell  you  that 
if  it  turns  out  to  be  a  fake,  I'll  have  you  deported 
as  an  undesirable  alien." 

He  turned  his  gaze  towards  the  little  group  of 
reporters  on  the  other  side  of  the  room  grinding 
—  I  op — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

out  copy  to  the  tune  played  by  a  dozen  clicking 
typewriters. 

"Crandall,"  he  called  out,  "I've  got  a  story  for 
you  to  look  up." 

Jimmy  effaced  himself  as  the  Bulletin's  star 
feature  writer  jumped  up  briskly  in  response  to  his 
chief's  summons. 


no  — 


Chapter  Fifteen 

The  Horace  Chadwicks  were  breakfasting  in 
their  stately  old  colonial  home  in  the  environs  of 
the  city.  The  shrill  song  of  twittering  robins  came 
through  the  half-open  windows  on  a  gentle  spring 
breeze  and  the  morning  sunlight  flooded  the  room. 
A  benign  spirit  of  peace  and  domestic  tranquility 
seemed  to  brood  over  the  scene.  Mr.  Chadwick, 
a  solid  and  substantial  looking  man  of  fifty-five, 
was  supping  his  coffee  and  glancing  through  the 
financial  columns  of  the  Gazette.  Mrs.  Chadwick 
had  finished  her  grape-fruit  and  had  just  picked  up 
the  Bulletin.  She  was  a  matronly  person  whose 
ample  bosom  seemed  to  be  but  the  continuation  of 
a  rippling  series  of  superfluous  chins.  She  carried 
herself,  even  in  her  morning  negligee,  with  that 
air  of  conscious  rectitude  and  commanding  import- 
ance which  she  felt  to  be  fitting  for  a  prominent 
banker's  wife  who  was  a  member  of  three  impor- 
tant women's  clubs,  secretary  of  the  anti-cigarette 
section  of  the  local  branch  of  the  W.  C.  T.  U.,  vice- 
president  of  the  Baltimore  chapter  of  the  League 
Opposed  to  Woman's  Suffrage  and  chairman  of  the 
Advisory  Coniimittee  to  the  State  Board  of  Moving 
Picture  Censors. 

If  Mr.  Chadwick  hadn't  been  deeply  immersed 
in  the  Gazette's  account  of  the  proposed  merger 
—  in  — 


Thresh  Every  Hour 

of  certain  copper  interests  he  might  have  noticed 
gathering  storm  clouds  a  few  feet  away,  but  he  was 
blissfully  unconscious  of  any  impending  catas- 
trophe. Screened  by  his  paper  he  had  no  inkling  of 
the  passing  train  of  emotions  that  were  registered 
upon  the  extensive  facial  areas  of  the  partner  of 
his  joys.  Amazement,  incredulity,  bewilderment, 
chagrin,  unholy  rage — all  of  these  feelings  were  de- 
picted upon  the  countenance  of  Mrs.  Chadwick  and 
were  succeeded  in  turn,  by  an  expression  of  scorn- 
ful calm  that  was  pregnant  with  possibilities  of 
a  most  unpleasant  nature.  She  laid  down  the  Bul- 
letin, removed  her  glasses  and  addressed  her  hus- 
band in  a  voice  that  was  cold  and  menacing. 

"What  car  do  you  propose  using  Sunday,  Hor- 
ace?" she  asked. 

"What's  that?",  said  Mr.  Chadwick  looking 
around  his  newspaper.  "What  car?  Sunday?  Oh, 
I  guess  I'll  take  the  new  touring  car  out?" 

"Don't  you  think  the  limousine  would  be  bet- 
ter?", she  continued  in  an  even  voice.  "More  shel- 
tered, more  screened  from  the  public  gaze  as  it 
were?" 

"More  screened  from  the  public  gaze?",  he  re- 
peated. "What  are  you  getting  at,  Elizabeth?  No 
limousine  for  me  if  this  weather  keeps  up.  Won- 
derful morning,  my  dear,  a  wonderful  morning. 
I'll  bet  the  crocuses  sprouted  three  inches  over 
night.  A  few  more  days  like  this  and  I'll  peel  a 
half  dozen  years  off.  Nothing  like  spring  to  put 
life  into  you,  my  dear,  nothing  like  it." 
—  1 12  — 


'Fresh  Every  Hour 

"Nothing  like  spring  to  make  foolish  nincom- 
poops out  of  a  lot  of  old  men,"  corrected  Mrs. 
Chadwick  in  a  voice  that  was  positively  glacial. 

Something  in  the  tone  of  it  stirred  her  husband's 
curiosity.  He  put  down  his  paper  and  looked  up 
quickly. 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Elizabeth?"  he 
inquired  sharply. 

"I  suppose  Colonel  Roundtree  has  picked  a 
blonde,'  went  on  Mrs.  Chadwick  icily,  utterly 
ignoring  his  question.  "Have  you  decided  on  a 
brunette,  Horace?" 

"Blondes — brunettes?"  murmured  Mr.  Chadwick 
hazily.  "Have  I  decided — say,  Elizabeth,  what's 
got  into  you?" 

"I  dare  say  brunettes  are  a  little  too  seriously 
inclined  for  you,"  ran  on  his  wife  in  the  same  even, 
ironic  tone.  "Blondes  are  livelier  and  they  have 
the  funniest  names,  I'm  told.  Which  do  you  pre- 
fer, Horace — Trixie,  Mazie  or  Delphine?" 

Mr.  Chadwick  surveyed  his  wife  with  alarm. 

"What's  the  joke,  Elizabeth?",  he  inquired  with 
an  attempt  at  a  smile  that  was  really  pathetic. 
"Where  do  I  laugh?" 

"Into  her  little  pink  ear,  Horace,"  responded 
Mrs.  Chadwick. 

"Look  here,  Elizabeth,"  he  shouted,  "either  you 
need  a  doctor  the  air  around  here  needs  clearing. 
Humor  was  never  your  strong  forte.  There  are  a 
lot  of  sly  little  innuendos  floating  about  that  I'm 
going  to  choke  off  right  here  and  now.  Some 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

damned  old  meddler  in  petticoats  has  been  buzzing 
about  this  house  and  I'm  going  to  find  out  who 
it  is." 

Mrs.  Chadwick  composedly  confronted  him. 

"A  pretty  well  known  meddler,  Horace,"  she  re- 
marked with  irritating  suavity.  "A  meddler  known 
to  thousands.  I  refer  you  to  the  Bulletin. 

She  carelessly  indicated  the  paper  in  front  of  her. 
Mr.  Chadwick  grabbed  it  and  hurriedly  glanced  at 
the  front  page.  A  three  column  headline  attracted 
his  attention. 

ELDERLY  MILLIONAIRES 
PLAN  JOY  RIDE  PARTY, 
WITH  "FROJJCS"  CHORUS 

Donald  McDonald,  Horace  Chad- 
wick and  Other  Auto  Club 
Members  Arrange  to  Bring 
Broadway  Beauties  Into  Town. 


INSIDER  SPILLS  THE  BEANS 


By  the  time  Mr.  Chadwick  got  that  far  he  was 
spluttering  like  a  leaky  radiator  valve.  By  the 
time  he  had  finished  reading  through  the  flossy 
little  yarn  that  Billy  Crandall  had  woven  out  of 
Jimmy  Martin's  story,  he  looked  as  if  he  had  over- 
stayed the  time  limit  in  the  hot  room  at  a  Turkish 

— 114  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

bath  by  fifteen  minutes.  His  face  was  fiery  red 
and  the  veins  stood  out  on  his  forehead  in  knotty 
little  lumps. 

The  fragmentary  remarks  that  Mrs.  Chadwick 
was  able  to  extract  from  the  almost  incoherent 
jumble  of  sounds  that  escaped  from  the  lips  of  her 
spouse  during  the  reading  were  of  such  a  general 
nature  and  tone  that  she  put  her  hands  to  her  ears 
in  sheer  self-defense  d  sat  wildly  tapping  her  feet 
on  the  floor  to  drown  them  out.  The  next  minute 
her  husband  crashed  out  of  the  room  and  through 
the  hall  to  his  waiting  car. 

"Cut  her  loose,  Martin,  and  drive  me  to  the  Bul- 
letin office,"  he  shouted  to  the  trim  chauffeur.  "I'm 
going  over  the  top  after  that  crowd  of  pestiferous 
puppies."  

Though  it  was  not  quite  nine  o'clock  when  Hor- 
ace Chadwick  arrived  at  the  Bulletin  office  he  found 
eight  other  apoplectic  prominent  citizens  gathered 
in  excited  colloquy  in  the  ante-room  to  the  office  ot 
Richard  Chilvers,  the  owner  and  editor-in-chief  ot 
the  paper.  Col.  Hannibal  Roundtree,  a  handsome 
and  stately  old  gentleman  with  a  militant  imperial 
and  a  flowing  white  moustache,  was  addressing  re- 
marks to  a  thoroughly  scared  young  man  who  had 
thoughtlessly  confessed  a  minute  before  that  he 
was  Mr.  Chilver's  secretary. 

"You  listen  to  me,  young  man,"  he  was  saying. 
"You  march  into  that  office  there  and  get  Dick 
Chilvers  on  that  private  wire  of  his  and  tell  him 
that  if  he's  a  gentleman  he'll  drop  his  breakfast 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

and  come  down  heah  and  meet  a  delegation  of  irate 
and  fightin'  mad  citizens  of  this  community  face 
to  face,  instead  skulkin'  in  the  trenches." 

The  youthful  secretary  vanished  through  a 
swinging  door  marked  "Private"  and  Colonel 
Roundtree  turned  to  his  friends. 

"Damned,  rascally,  cowardly  hounds — that's 
what  I  call  'em.  They  print  a  dastardly  canard 
like  that  and  then  they  skedaddle  in  the  face  of  the 
common  enemy." 

"You're  talking,  colonel,"  broke  in  Mr.  Chad- 
wick.  "I  haven't  met  anybody  I  know,  but  I'll  bet 
we're  the  laughing  stock  of  the  whole  town." 

"I  can't  take  that  bet,"  responded  Col.  Round- 
tree  bitterly.  "Unfortunately  for  my  peace  of  mind 
I  have  met  some  of  my  friends.  Why,  gentlemen, 
we  should  take  matters  into  our  own  hands,  mount 
a  machine  gun  right  heah  at  this  door  and  keep  'em 
from  gettin*  out  another  edition  of  this  lyin',  treach- 
ous,  no-account  sheet." 

There  were  murmurs  of  approval  of  these  belli- 
gerent sentiments  from  the  little  group  of  protest- 
ants  which  had  just  been  increased  by  the  arrival 
of  Jonathan  Wilde,  a  thin  dyspeptic  looking  man 
with  a  disappearing  Adam's  apple  and  of  Henry 
Quinby  Blugsden,  a  former  United  States  senator 
who  carried  the  dignity  of  America's  foremost  de- 
bating society  about  with  him  on  all  occasions. 

"Legal  measures,  my  dear  colonel,"  said  the  for- 
mer senator,  "are,  I  think,  the  soundest  in  such  an 
emergency.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned  my  suit  will 
— 116  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

be  filed  this  afternoon.  I  shall  name  the  sum  of 
$250,000  as  insufficient  damages  for  the  mental  pain 
I  have  already  undergone.  Mrs.  Blugsden,  as  many 
of  you  know,  is  a  woman  of  decided  prejudices  and 
a  strong  mind." 

"She  hasn't  a  shade  on  my  wife,"  remarked  Mr. 
Wilde.  She's  got  two  doctors  working  on  her  this 
.minute.  Went  right  off  into  hysterics  at  the  break- 
fast table  and  began  smashing  china." 

"My  own  deah  Julia,"  remarked  the  colonel,  "pro- 
fessed not  to  believe  the  damned  nonsense,  but 
there  was  a  1  ok  in  her  off  eye  as  I  was  passin'  out 
the  door  that  made  me  feel  more  uncomfortable 
than  I  have  since  the  day  Yellow  Boy  lost  the 
Eastern  Shore  Handicap." 

The  elevator  door  out  in  the  corridor  clanged  just 
then  and  the  brisk  step  of  Richard  Chilvers  was 
heard  approaching  the  little  delegation  of  promi- 
nent citizens.  Colonel  Roundtree  moved  to  a  strat- 
egic position  at  the  head  of  the  g  oup.  The  pub- 
lisher— a  tall,  forthright,  hearty  looking  man — 
stopped  at  the  doorway  and  affected  great  surprise 
at  the  combination  of  wealth,  social  position  and 
business  power  he  found  confronting  him. 

"Well,  well,"  he  remarked  buoyantly,  "the  Bul- 
letin seems  to  be  honored  this  morning.  It  can't  be 
possible  that  you're  all  waiting  to  see  me,  is  it?" 

Colonel  Roundtree  lost  his  voice  for  a  moment  at 
the  breezy  assurance  of  this  greeting.  He  coughed 
violently  and  then  composed  himself  with  a  mighty 
effort. 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"You  know  perfectly  well  why  we're  here,  Dick 
Chilvers,"  he  said  majestically.  "We're  here  be- 
cause the  honor  and  the  sacred  dignity  of  our 
homes  and  hearths  have  been  ruthlessly  assailed  in 
the  public  prints." 

The  publisher  walked  toward  the  door  leading 
to  his  office.  He  held  it  open. 

"Just  step  inside,  gentlemen,"  he  said  quietly.  "I 
never  discuss  business  out  here." 

The  prominent  citizens  moved  inside  and  disposed 
themselves  about  the  desk  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 
Mr.  Chilvers,  who  was  irritatingly  calm,  laid  his  hat 
and  gloves  on  the  desk  and  faced  them. 

"Won't  you  be  seated,  gentlemen?"  he  asked 
suavely. 

"Seated!  Hell!"  retorted  Colonel  Roundtree. 
"We  want  to  talk  to  you  standin'  up.  Why  did 
you  print  that  lyin'  yarn  this  mornin'?" 

"I  presume  you  refer  to  the  story  about  the  Auto- 
mobile Club,"  returned  the  publisher.  "I'm  not 
aware  that  it  is  a  lying  yarn,  as  you  call  it.  I've 
been  up  several  hours,  colonel,  and  I've  been  doing 
a  little  investigating  on  my  own." 

There  were  excited  murmurs  from  the  group  of 
protestants  at  this  remark.  Horace  Chadwick,  who 
stood  next  to  Colonel  Roundtree  decided  to  go  to 
bat  in  place  of  the  latter.  The  colonel  was  palpably 
too  mad  to  be  articulate. 

"Dick  Chilvers,"  said  Mr.  Chadwick,  "do  you 
mean  to  tell  your  fellow  club  members  and  busi- 
— 118  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

ness  associates  that  you  give  the  slightest  credence 
to  this  fairy  tale?" 

"I  mean  to  tell  you,"  replied  the  publisher  evenly, 
"that  I  have  faith  in  the  men  I  employ.  I  didn't 
see  the  story  until  I  read  it  in  the  paper  this  morn- 
ing. I  must  confess  it  sounded  incredible.  I  got 
my  night  city  editor  out  of  bed  and  he  told  me  that 
the  story  had  been  thoroughly  investigated  and 
verified." 

"Verified?"  shouted  Colonel  Roundtree,  finding 
his  voice  again.  "Who  in  the  name  of  Andrew 
Jackson  verified  it?" 

"A  gentleman  we  all  know  extremely  well,"  re- 
turned the  editor.  "I'm  going  to  call  him  up." 

He  reached  for  the  telephone  book  on  his  desk, 
looked  up  a  number  and  gave  it  to  the  operator. 
His  visitors  gathered  around  his  desk  whispering 
excitedly  to  each  other.  There  was  a  moment  or 
two  of  tense  silence  and  then  the  bell  rang. 

"Is  that  3459  Parkway?"  he  asked.  "Please  give 
me  Mr.  McDonald." 

As  he  waited  the  distinguished  citizens  looked 
at  each  other  in  amazement.  They  moved  closer 
to  the  telephone.  Presently  the  publisher  was  talk- 
ing again. 

"Is  that  you,  Mac?"  he  asked.  "This  is  Dick 
Chilvers.  You  know  what  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
about,  I  guess — yes,  that's  it — hell? — I  should  say 
so — I've  got  nearly  an  even  dozen  irate  citizens 
here  now  and  I'm  dead  certain  there  are  more  on 
—  up  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

the  way— Roundtree?— yes,  he's  here— yes,  he's  a 
little  excited  about  it " 

An  indignant  snort  from  the  colonel  interrupted 
the  conversation.  His  associates  nudged  him  into 
silence. 

"Jennings  said  you  gave  Crandall  the  story/' 
Chilvers  was  saying.  "You  did,  eh? — what's  the 
idea  ?  Come  now,  Mac,  this  is  serious — don't  laugh 
like  that — why  if  Roundtree  ever  heard  that  laugh 
he'd  commit  aggravated  assault  and  battery  on  the 
spot — y-e-s — y-e-s — well,  of  course " 

The  little  group  bent  forward  eagerly  to  catch 
every  word.  The  one-sided  convert  tion  began  to 
get  more  and  more  cryptic  to  them. 

"You  will,  eh,"  the  publisher  continued.  "No — 
not  this  time.  I'll  get  this  particular  story  myself 
— noon,  eh? — all  right,  Mac." 

Chilvers  hung  up  thephone  and  turned  to  his  friends. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  remarked  easily.  "I'm  going 
out  on  a  little  assignment  myself.  I'm  going  to 
interview  Mr.  Donald  McDonald  of  the  Merchants 
Trust  Company.  He  says  he's  got  another  story 
that's  better  than  this  one.  I'll  have  to  ask  you 
to  excuse  me  until  I  see  him." 

"We'll  meet  you  at  his  office,"  blurted  Colonel 
Roundtree.  "There's  something  powerful  queer 
about  this  thing  and  we're  going  to  see  it  through. 

"Mac  won't  be  at  his  office,"  responded  the  pub- 
lisher. "He  said  he'd  prefer  not  to  meet  any  of  you 
until  tomorrow.  We've  arranged  a — well,  a  sort 
of  a  secret  rendevouz." 

— 120  — 


Chapter  Sixteen 

Horace  Chadwick  was  stirring  the  next  morning 
before  anyone  else  in  the  house.  He  crept  down 
the  main  stairway  in  a  suit  of  pink  pajamas  and  a 
purple  bathrobe  and  made  straight  for  the  front 
door.  He  opened  it  and  peered  out  on  the  porch. 
The  morning  papers  had  not  yet  arrived.  He 
slipped  back  in  the  hallway  and  sat  down  on  a 
settee.  He  had  had  a  sleepless  night  and  he  was 
in  a  rotten  humor.  The  wife  of  his  bosom  hadn't 
spoken  a  word  to  him  since  the  affair  of  the  break- 
fast table  the  day  before  and  he  had  been  so  un- 
mercifully "guyed"  by  every  friend  he  met  that  he 
had  taken  refuge  in  his  library  early  in  the  after- 
noon and  had  smoked  three  times  as  many  black 
cigars  as  were  good  for  him. 

Chilvers  had  been  inaccessible  since  the  visit  of 
the  deputation  and  every  effort  to  get  in  touch  with 
anyone  on  the  Bulletin  had  been  met  with  the  re- 
sponse that  "explanations  will  be  made  in  tomor- 
row's paper."  To  make  matters  worse  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Chaddow  had  called  to  offer  spiritual  consolation 
to  "dear,  kind  Mrs.  Chadwick."  He  had  heard  the 
cleric  intoning  his  sympathy  in  the  drawing  room 
and  had  been  obliged  to  stand  at  an  open  window 
to  cool  off  and  keep  himself  from  rushing  in  and 
— 121  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

laying1  violent  hands  on  the  reverend  gentleman. 
The  story  was  the  talk  of  the  town  and  telephonic 
reports  from  other  members  of  the  aggrieved  group 
of  prominent  citizens  brought  word  of  the  continu- 
ance of  violent  hostilities  in  nearly  a  score  of  house- 
holds. 

The  memory  of  these  things  seethed  in  Mr.  Chad- 
wick's  mind  as  he  sat  with  his  aching  head  bent 
forward  on  his  hands  and  heard  the  library  clock 
chime  six.  Presently  a  dull  thud  was  heard  against 
the  door.  Mr.  Chadwick  jumped  up  and  stepped 
out  on  the  porch  again.  He  picked  up  the  tightly 
rolled  little  bundle  of  newspapers  a  boy  had  just 
thrown  in  from  the  sidewalk,  and  slammed  the  door 
shut  behind  him.  He  eagerly  unrolled  the  package, 
picked  out  the  Bulletin  and  held  up  the  front  page 
under  the  shade  of  a  tall  hall-lamp. 

Delia,  the  cook,  who  was  coming  down  the  front 
stairs  in  direct  violation  of  a  household  rule  at  this 
particular  moment,  was  frozen  in  her  tracks  by  the 
incisive  explicitness  of  a  blistering  exclamation 
which  came  up  out  of  the  hall  below.  It  was  fol- 
lowed by  murmurs  and  mumbles  which  she  couldn't 
quite  make  out,  then  by  a  chuckle  or  two  and  finally 
by  a  hearty  laugh  that  sent  her  scurrying  upstairs 
again  and  down  the  back  way,  convinced  that  the 
gentleman  of  the  house  had  suddenly  gone  out  of 
his  mind. 

Mr.  Chadwick  followed  her  up  with  the  nimble- 
ness  of  a  school  boy,  waving  the  paper  in  his  hand 
He  knocked  loudly  at  his  wife's  door. 
— 122  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"Elizabeth,"  he  shouted,  "God's  in  his  heaven — 
all's  right  with  the  world." 

"What's  that?"  came  a  sleepy  voice  from  behind 
the  locked  door. 

"The  blonde  peril  has  passed  on  out  to  sea,"  he 
said  gayly.  "Take  a  look  at  this  morning's  Bul- 
letin." 

Mrs.  Chadwick  unlocked  the  door  and  admitted 
her  husband.  He  blithely  escorted  her  over  to  the 
window,  drew  up  the  curtain  and  flashed  the  paper 
in  front  of  her  blinking  eyes.  At  first  she  saw  only 
a  smear  of  black  type  and  a  dancing  set  of  little 
pictures.  The  type  presently  resolved  itself  into 
a  five  column  headline  which  told  a  story  that  the 
whole  town  would  be  chuckling  over  in  another 
hour : 

BANKER  SATISFIES 
GRUDGE;  NEARLY 
BREAJ(S  UP  HOMES 

Fate  and  Theatrical  Press  Agent 
Play  Into  Hands  of  Donald 
McDonald  and  Give  Him  Sweet 
Revenge  After  Many  Years. 


HE  WHO  LAUGHS 

LAST  LAUGHS  BEST 

Mrs.  Chadwick  gazed  bewilderingly  at  the  flam- 
— 123  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

ing  headline  and  at  the  pen  and  ink  sketches  illus- 
trating the  story  which  followed — sketches  pictur- 
ing with  comic  effect  little  scenes  like  that  which 
transpired  at  her  own  breakfast  table  the  morning 
before. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said  weakly. 

"Read  the  first  few  paragraphs  and  you  will," 
chuckled  her  husband. 

His  wife  obediently  read  the  introduction  to  the 
long  story  which  Crandall  had  written. 

On  a  certain  Spring  night  a  score 
of  years  ago  a  certain  Baltimorean 
gazed  up  at  the  star  spangled  heav- 
ens on  the  desolate  shores  of  a  little 
inlet  of  Chesapeake  Bay  twenty  long 
miles  from  a  railroad  and  fifteen 
from  any  human  habitation  and 
swore  by  all  the  nine  gods  that  some- 
time, somehow,  some  place  he  would 
get  even  collectively  and  appropriate- 
ly with  two  dozen  of  his  fellow  club 
members  who  had  just  played  him 
what  he  considered  the  scurviest 
trick  known  to  mortal  man.  He  had 
been  kidnapped  on  his  wedding  night 
and  dumped  without  ceremony  on 
the  loneliest  spot  in  this  corner  of 
the  world — all  by  way  of  a  joke. 

This  same  man  sat  yesterday  in  the 
living  room  of  his  country  home  with 
a  perpetual  grin  on  his  face  and  a 
heartful  of  joy.  He  knew  that  every 
living  man  of  that  party  of  jokesters 
was  suffering  something  approximat- 
ing the  torments  he  suffered  on  that 
night  of  nights  and  that  he  had 
stirred  up  more  trouble  in  a  score  of 
households  than  a  half  a  hundred 

— 124  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

genuine    vampires    might    have    suc- 
ceeded in  doing. 

Opportunity  chose  the  disguise  of  a 
theatrical  press  agent  when  she  fin- 
ally knocked  after  all  these  years — 
which  statement  leads  naturally  to 
an  account  of  the  real  inside  of  the 
story  of  the  projected  millionaires' 
chorus  girl  joy  ride  party  which 
amused  and  startled  this  city  yester- 
day. 


—  125  — 


Chapter  Seventeen 

The  advance  sale  of  seats  for  the  engagement 
of  the  Frolics  opened  that  morning.  Jimmy  Martin 
stood  chatting  with  Manager  George  Seymour  in 
the  lobby  of  the  Lyric  Theatre  and  watching  the 
long  queue  of  prospective  ticket  purchasers  which 
stretched  out  to  the  sidewalk  and  curved  up  the 
street  for  nearly  half  a  block.  Jimmy  couldn't  re- 
sist gloating  just  a  little  bit.  He  had  adopted  a 
more  or  less  casual,  "I  told  you  so"  attitude  the  day 
before  when  the  first  story  appeared,  but  this  morn- 
ing he  just  naturally  expanded. 

"Well,  Georgie  old  man,"  he  remarked  cheerily. 
"You've  got  to  give  him  credit.  The  kid's  clever." 

"What  kid?"  asked  Mr.  Seymour. 

"That  Martin  fellow  ahead  of  the  'Frolics.'  I 
told  you  stirring  up  towns  was  a  specialty  of  his. 
He  certainly  handed  this  one  a  jolt.  Do  you  hear 
'em  all  talking  about  this  morning's  yarn  ?  It's  the 
biggest  press  story  in  years." 

"Just  luck— dumb  luck." 

"Pretty  good  for  the  little  old  showshop  and  the 
little  old  show,  though,  you've  got  to  admit.  Come 
on,  Georgie,  act  human.  Own  up  that  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  big  idea  I  led  in  by  the  hand,  little 
old  Robert  B.  Luck  wouldn't  have  had  a  chance  to 
sit  in  and  draw  five  cards." 

— 126  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"Say,"  remarked  Seymour  irrelevantly,  "did  you 
know  Meyerfield  was  coming  over  this  morning? 
He  phoned  me  from  Washington  last  night  after 
you'd  gone." 

"I  didn't  know  it,"  responded  Jimmy,  "but  it's 
music  to  my  ears.  I  want  to  be  lingering  around 
when  he  lamps  this  line.  You  know  he  told  me  to 
smear  the  girls  all  over  the  front  page,  but  he 
didn't  say  anything  about  doing  it  two  days  run- 
ning." 

Jimmy  strolled  down  the  lobby  and  loitered  near 
the  slow  moving  line.  He  felt  a  pleasurable  little 
thrill  as  he  listened  to  the  comments  on  the  Bulle- 
tin's story.  He  walked  out  to  the  street  and  ran 
his  eye  along  the  queue  that  nearly  reached  the 
corner.  Then  a  taxi  drove  up  and  Meyerfield 
alighted.  Jimmy  caught  a  flash  of  the  Bulletin 
sticking  out  of  the  manager's  overcoat  pocket.  So 
he'd  seen  the  story  already,  he  thought.  Well,  he'd 
try  to  be  modest. 

"Hello,  Martin,"  said  Meyerfield,  holding  out  a 
clammy  hand  and  giving  Jimmy  a  barely  percep- 
tible grip.  "Glad  I  caught  you.  Pittsburgh  can- 
celled and  we're  going  straight  through  to  Boston 
from  here.  You'd  better  duck  over  there  right 
away.  Come  back  to  the  office  a  minute.  There's 
something  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about." 

The  manager  gave  the  line  a  look  of  quick  ap- 
praisal as  he  passed  quickly  back  to  Seymour's  of- 
fice. Jimmy  followed  him,  a  little  shade  downcast 
at  the  failure  of  his  employer  to  make  mention  of 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

his  achievement.  Meyerfield  greeted  Seymour 
pleasantly,  slid  into  a  chair,  slowly  lit  a  cigar  and 
assumed  his  most  judicial  manner. 

"Martin,"  he  said  presently.  "I  want  to  talk  to 
you  about  these  stories  that  have  been  running  in 
the  Bulletin.  Now 

"Some  little  smear,  eh?" 

"It's  a  smear  all  right,  but  it  isn't  the  kind  of 
publicity  I  want." 

"But,"  Mr.  Meyerfield,  broke  in  Jimmy  incredu- 
lously. "Did  you  see  the  line  ?  Why 

"Yes,  I  saw  the  line,  but  that  doesn't  mean  every- 
thing. It's  just  a  little  flash  in  the  pan,  and  besides 
it's  dangerous  stuff — why  you  can't  tell  what  would 
come  of  it.  Someone  told  me  on  the  train  coming 
over  that  there  was  a  quarter  of  a  billion  dollars 
represented  by  the  names  in  that  story." 

"But  that's  just  why  it's  good  stuff!  The  more 
important  the  people " 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  interrupt  me,"  snapped 
Meyerfield.  "I've  got  a  silent  partner  in  New  York 
— a  big  banker — he's  going  to  back  my  new  sumjmer 
show.  Why,  if  he  ever  gets  wise  to  this  stuff  you 
can't  tell  what'd  happen.  He  may  know  some  of 
these  fellows  you've  mixed  up  in  this  story  and  he 
may  call  the  whole  thing  off.  You  came  pretty 
near  getting  me  in  Dutch.  Maybe  you  have.  You'd 
better  pull  a  new  line  of  stuff  over  in  Boston.  This 
kind'll  never  do." 

He  watched  Jimmy  narrowly  to  see  how  that  or- 
dinarily enthusiastic  young  gentleman  was  respond- 
—  128  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

ing  to  this  line  of  talk.    Jimmy's  first  expression  of 
bewilderment  was  replaced  by  one  of  great  anxiety. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Meyerfield,"  he  said  deferentially. 
"You  know  best.  You've  been  at  it  longer  than  I 
have,  and,  of  course,  you  know  the  show  business 
from  more  angles  than  I  do.  I'm  sorry  it  happened. 
I  didn't  understand.  I'll  try  and  pull  something 
different  over  in  Boston." 

"That's  it,"  beamed  Meyerfield.  "The  fireworks 
stuff  is  all  right,  but  sticking  to  facts  and  real  legit- 
imate publicity  is  what  lasts.  We'll  let  by-gones 
be  has-beens.  You'd  better  start  on  the  earliest 
train  possible.  By  the  way,  Miss  Bellairs  is  going 
to  lay  off  for  a  couple  of  weeks  after  our  opening 
here.  Her  doctor  says  she'll  have  a  six  month's 
session  in  a  sanatarium  if  she  doesn't,  but  we  can 
get  by  that  all  right.  You  mustn't  let  a  word  of 
this  get  out.  You  understand?" 

"Sure  I  understand,"  replied  Jimmy.  Who's  go- 
ing on  in  her  place?" 

"Little  Leona  LeClaire,"  said  Meyerfield.  "It's 
a  chance  to  put  her  on  in  the  leading  role,  but  I 
think  she'll  fill  the  bill  all  right.  She's  been  under- 
studying all  season." 

"I  get  you,  Mr.  Meyerfield.  I'll  try  and  pull 
something  different." 

"That's  the  talk,"  replied  the  manager,  extending 
a  fishy  hand  again. 

As  the  door  swung  shut  on  the  press  agent, 
Meyerfield  turned  to  Seymour  and  gave  him  a  pro- 
digious wink. 

—  129  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"How  do  you  like  my  work,  George?"  he  asked 
expansively. 

"I  don't  understand,"  puzzled  the  theatre  man- 
ager. "What  do  you  mean?  I  thought  that  news- 
paper stuff  was  damned  good,  if  you  ask  me.  Best 
thing  pulled  off  here  in  years." 

"Of  course  it  was  George,"  responded  Meyerfield 
with  an  air  of  great  wisdom.  "It  was  one  of  the 
best  ever,  but  if  I  told  that  fresh  gink  I  thought 
it  was,  there'd  be  no  holding  him.  He'd  take  the 
bit  in  his  teeth  and  bolt  down  Main  street.  He'd 
begin  to  think  he  was  worth  a  thousand  dollars  a 
minute.  Birds  like  that  have  to  be  held  down. 
Don't  let  'em  ever  think  they're  good,  I  know  how 
to  handle  all  his  kind." 

Meyerfield's  office  boy  dumped  a  big  pile  of  Bos- 
ton Sunday  papers  on  his  desk  the  following  Mon- 
day morning.  The  manager  opened  the  Press  and 
turned  to  the  theatrical  page.  H£  skimmed  it  hur- 
riedly and  then  uttered  a  low  moan.  Staring  him  in 
the  face  was  a  double  column  picture  of  Leona  Le 
Claire.  Over  it  was  a  headline  which  read: 

PRIMA  DONNA'S  ILLNESS' 
GIVES  CHORUS  GIRL 
A  BIG  OPPORTUNITY 

—  130— 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

A  story  detailing  the  facts  about  Bessie  Bellairs* 
threatened  breakdown  followed,  together  with 
some  account  of  the  stage  beginnings  of  the  under- 
study. Meyerfield  frantically  looked  through  the 
other  papers  and  found  the  photograph  of  the  Le 
Claire  girl  featured  in  each  one  of  them  with  prac- 
tically the  same  story.  He  called  his  stenographer 
and  angrily  dictated  this  telegram: 

JAMES   MARTIN, 

AGENT  MEYERFIELD'S  FROLICS, 
STAR  THEATRE,  BOSTON,  MASS. 

WHY  DID  YOU  PRINT  THAT  BONE- 
HEAD  STORY  ABOUT  UNDERSTUDY 
AFTER  MY  INSTRUCTIONS  TO  THE  CON- 
TRARY—YOU'RE RUINING  MY  BUSINESS 
—WIRE  IMMEDIATELY. 

MEYERFIELD, 

This  answer  came  back — collect — in  an  hour  and 
a  half: 

MAURICE  MEYERFIELD, 

1426  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK  CITY. 
GO  OUT  AND  PLAY  WITH  THE  CHIPPY 
BIRDS.  IF  YOU  WANT  TO  PUT  ANY- 
THING OVER  ON  ME  YOU'LL  HAVE  TO 
SET  YOUR  ALARM  CLOCK  EARLIER— I 
RESIGN— I'M  OFF  SONG  AND  DANCE 
SHOWS  FOR  LIFE— NOTHING  BUT  HIGH- 
BROW STUFF  FOR  MINE  FROM  NOW  ON 
—HAVE  SIGNED  TO  GO  AHEAD  OF  OLGA 
STEPHANO  IN  HEDDA  GABLER,  BY 
HENRI  K.  IBSEN. 

MARTIN. 


Chapter  Eighteen 

A  letter  from  Lolita,  received  in  Cleveland  a  few 
weeks  later  while  Jimmy  was  on  the  first  lap  of 
his  transcontinental  journey  as  press  agent  extraor- 
dinary for  Madame  Olga  Stephano,  the  noted  expo- 
nent of  Ibsen,  sent  the  dark  clouds  which  had  given 
him!  an  extremely  low  visibility  scurrying  like  mist 
before  the  sun  and  shot  his  blood  pressure  up  almost 
to  the  danger  point. 

Lolita  admitted  the  justice  of  Jimmy's  objection 
to  "Ursula's  Undies,"  and  sent  word  that  she  had 
finally  ceased  her  connection  with  that  organization 
and  was  "doing  bits"  with  a  stock  company  in  Mt. 
Vernon.  If  Jimmy  would  only  forgive  her  she'd 
heed  his  advice  on  all  occasions  in  the  future. 
Jimmy,  in  a  mood  of  extreme  jubilation,  had  sent 
her  a  seventy-three  word  night  letter  and  had  re- 
tired early. 

When  he  bounded  out  of  his  bed  in  the  Carlton 
Hotel  the  next  morning  and  looked  over  a  copy  of 
the  Star  which  a  thoughtful  management  had  slid 
under  his  door,  he  began  to  radiate  gladness  and 
to  impart  tidings  of  good  cheer.  Little  Sunshine, 
the  sweet  young  orphan  in  the  story  book,  who 
went  around  making  folks  forget  their  troubles  by 
telling  them  that  abscessed  teeth  and  carbuncles 
were  blessings  in  disguise,  had  nothing  on  him. 

— 132  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

He  trilled  a  merry  roundelay  while  he  bathed 
and  shaved,  and  he  felt  so  good  that  he  tossed  a 
"good  morning,  kid"  to  a  pert  little  sparrow  who 
was  hopping  about  on  the  fire  escape  outside  the 
open  window. 

Jimmy  had  a  well  forged  alibi  for  his  exuberance 
of  spirits,  quite  apart  from  the  resumption  of  dip- 
lomatic relations  with  the  fair  Lolita.  He  had  just 
performed  that  fascinating  operation  known  in  the 
patois  of  the  profession  as  "putting  one  over."  The 
patient  who  had  submitted  to  his  deft  scalpel  was 
no  less  a  personage  than  E.  Cartwright  Jenkins, 
dramatic  editor  of  the  Star.  E.  Cartwright  Jenkins 
was  the  alpha  and  omega,  the  guardian  angel  of  the 
drama  in  that  corner  of  the  world. 

It  is  only  fair  to  state  that  just  one  month  before 
Jimmy's  advent  on  the  scene,  E.  Cartwright  had 
declared  war  to  the  death  on  the  bureau  of  pub- 
licity and  promotion.  He  had  issued  a  manifesto 
which  took  in  everyone  from  the  humblest  repre- 
sentatives of  a  "Tom  show"  to  the  avaunt  couriers 
of  the  actors  and  actresses  deemed  worthy  of  fa- 
vorable mention  by  the  critics  of  the  Big  Town. 

The  Jenkins'  ire  had  been  aroused  by  a  neat  little 
yarn  submitted  by  a  modest  young  gentleman  with 
mild  blue  eyes  who  had  attested  to  its  accuracy  on 
the  sacred  honor  of  his  grandsires.  The  subsequent 
developments  had  almost  involved  the  Star  in  an 
expensive  libel  suit  and  certain  blistering  remarks 
from  the  owner  and  publisher  of  the  paper,  directed 
at  the  dramatic  editor's  head,  had  resulted  in  the 

—  Z33  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

issuance  of  the  aforementioned  ultimatum.  The 
manager  of  the  Standard  Theatre  had  shown  Jimmy 
the  letter  containing  it. 

"We  shall  accept  from  the  theatre,"  the  letter  ran, 
"only  the  briefest  sort  of  a  general  preliminary  an- 
nouncement giving  the  name  of  the  play  and  the 
players  concerned.  Press  agents'  contributions  are 
not  wanted  and  will  not  be  used.  It  will  not  be 
necessary  for  them  to  call  to  pay  their  respects. 
We  will  take  those  for  granted." 

As  Jimmy  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  and  read 
the  dramatic  page  of  the  Star  over  again  he 
chuckled  gleefully.  Confronting  him  was  a  three 
column  head  which  read :  "Defense  and  a  Rebuttal." 
Underneath  it  was  a  thousand  word  letter  addressed 
to  the  dramatic  editor  and  signed  "Very  Respect- 
fully Yours,  James  T.  Martin."  Following  it  was  a 
long  piece  bearing  the  signature  of  E.  Cartwright 
Jenkins. 

The  letter  was  a  work  of  surpassing  art  which 
had  been  jointly  composed  the  day  before  by  Jimmy 
and  a  reporter  on  the  rival  Inquirer  who  had  cov- 
ered "sports"  with  him  in  days  gone  by  on  a  St. 
Louis  paper  and  who  had  a  freely  flowing  repertoire 
of  adjectives  at  his  command  that  was  dazzling  in 
its  completeness.  It  was  a  protest  against  the 
Star's  embargo  on  theatrical  tidings  and  a  defense 
of  the  ancient  and  honorable  calling  of  press  agent. 
It  was  cunningly  interlarded  here  and  there  with 
oily  and  unctuous  references  to  the  supreme  wisdom 
of  Mr.  Jenkins, 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

That  worthy  gentleman  was  appealed  to  as  "the 
recognized  authority  on  all  things  pertaining  to  the 
serious  drama  in  this  part  of  the  United  States"  and 
as  a  "patron  of  the  seven  arts  whose  causeries  are 
the  delight  of  the  cultured  and  the  despair  of  the 
untutored."  Mention  was  made  of  the  discourage- 
ment such  worthy  artists  as  Madame  Stephano  met 
with  as  a  result  of  the  refusal  of  the  Star  to  co- 
operate in  the  movement  for  the  uplift  of  the  stage, 
etc.,  etc. 

"That'll  get  that  old  bird,"  Jimmy  had  remarked 
to  his  friend  after  the  latter  had  explained  what 
the  "seven  arts"  were.  "He's  the  chairman  of  the 
executive  committee  of  the  I-Hate-Myself  Club." 

Jimmy  had  had  prophetic  vision.  E.  Cartwright 
had  fallen  into  the  trap.  He  had  printed  the  letter 
in  full  and  he  had  followed  it  with  certain  remarks 
of  his  own  in  which  he  regretted  that  the  new  rule 
interfered  with  the  "proper  exploitation  of  such 
representative  and  distinguished  players  as  Madame 
Stephano,"  etc.,  etc. 

The  press  agent  took  out  a  lead  pencil  and  began 
underscoring  the  name  of  his  star  every  time  it  ap- 
peared in  both  his  letter  and  the  dramatic  editor's 
subjoined  comment. 

"Fourteen  times,"  he  chuckled  to  himself.  "The 
poor  old  boob." 

He  stuck  his  derby  on  his  head  a  bit  rakishly, 
reached  for  a  silver  topped  walking  stick  and 
started  a  progress  down  to  the  lobby  that  was  a 
continuous  round  of  cheery  greetings.  He  joked 

— 135  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

with  the  chambermaid  he  saw  entering  the  room 
next  his  own;  exchanged  a  bit  of  badinage  with 
another  who  was  loitering  near  the  elevator,  and 
playfully  slapped  the  elevator  boy  on  the  back  with 
his  folded  newspaper.  He  maintained  this  exalted 
mood  throughout  breakfast  during  which  meal  he 
again  counted  over  the  "Madame  Stephanos"  on 
the  sixth  page  to  see  if  he'd  made  a  mistake  in  his 
previous  reckoning. 

After  breakfast  he  strolled  out  into  the  lobby 
again  and  over  to  the  cigar  counter.  As  he  pointed 
to  a  box  in  the  case  marked  "50c"  each,  he  beamed 
at  the  slender  blonde  who  was  reaching  to  serve 
him  and  the  blonde  beamed  back. 

"Say,  sister,"  he  asked  pleasantly,  "how'd  you 
like  a  couple  of  seats  for  the  show  Monday  night 
at  the  Standard?" 

"Fine,"  replied  the  young  woman.    "What  is  it?" 

"Olga  Stephano,"  returned  the  press  agent  as  he 
reached  for  his  pass  pad  and  his  fountain  pen. 

"She's  that  Russian  actress,  ain't  she,  that  plays 
in  those  highbrow  plays?" 

"That's  right,"  replied  Jimmy.  "Ibsen  stuff,  but 
she's  a  bear  at  it.  She  makes  you  tremble  and  she 
makes  you  sigh." 

The  blonde  person  took  the  proffered  pass  and 
folded  it  carefully. 

"I'll  take  my  sister,"  she  said.  "She'll  have  the 
time  of  her  life  if  there's  anything  sad  in  it.  I  must 
say  you  press  agents  are  a  mighty  nice  lot  of  boys. 
I  meet  a  lot  of  you  fellows  in  the  course  of  a  season 

-136- 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

and  most  every  one  slips  me  a  pass  just  for  socia- 
bility. Here  comes  Mr.  Wilson  now.  He  just  got 
in  this  morning.  He  told  me  he's  ahead  of  some 
new  play  they're  trying  out  for  Otis  Taber." 

The  gentleman  who  was  approaching  was  a  well 
set-up,  prosperous  looking  man  in  his  early  forties 
who  looked  more  like  a  bank  cashier  or  a  successful 
professional  man  than  the  popular  conception  of  a 
theatrical  advance  agent.  He  was  one  of  that  dis- 
tinguished little  group  of  clever  newspapermen  who 
have  been  lured  away  from  the  daily  grind  of  news- 
gathering  or  editorial  work  into  the  pleasant  by- 
paths of  theatrical  endeavor  and  who  have  found 
the  fascinations  of  the  show  world  too  subtle  to 
resist  no  matter  how  hard  they  try. 

"Hello,  Jimmy,  old  man,"  he  said  heartily.  "What 
are  you  doing  out  here  in  Cleveland?  I  thought  you 
were  with  'Meyerfield's  Frolics'." 

"I  was,"  replied  Jimmy,  "but  I'm  off  song  and 
dance  shows.  I  had  a  run  in  with  Meyerfield." 

"What  are  you  doing?"  asked  the  other. 

"I've  signed  up  with  the  little  old  uplift,  Tom," 
returned  Jimmy.  "I'm  elevating  our  well  known 
stage." 

Tom  Wilson  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you're  ahead  of 
Stephano?",  he  gasped. 

"That's  what,"  said  Jimmy,  with  easy  assurance. 
"I  knew  it  would  hand  a  laugh  to  all  of  you  kid 
glove  scounts,  but  I'm  going  to  make  good  even  if 
I  am  about  as  much  of  a  highbrow  as  a  bush  league 


'Fresh  Every  Hour 

second  baseman.    As  a  matter  of  fact  I've  started 
to  clean  up  already.    Have  a  cigar." 

Mr.  Wilson  looked  in  the  case  and  indicated  a 
modestly  priced  weed.  Jimmy  held  up  a  depreca- 
tory hand. 

"Nothing  doing,  sister,"  he  expanded.  "Slip  him 
one  of  those  regular  smokes." 

His  friend  picked  a  thick  cigar  out  of  the  box  the 
blonde  person  handed  him  and  looked  into  Jimmy's 
smiling  face. 

"Say,"  he  inquired.  "What's  the  idea?  Had  a 
legacy  or  something?" 

Jimmy  motioned  him  towards  a  large  leather 
sofa  in  the  center  of  the  lobby. 

"I've  just  put  one  over  on  the  censor,"  he  exulted, 
as  he  settled  down,  "and  I  just  naturally  feel  a  little 
frisky.  You  don't  mind  if  I  pin  a  few  war  crosses 
on  my  chest,  do  you?" 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  the  other  good  naturedly. 
"Fire  ahead." 

Jimmy  opened  the  folded  newspaper  in  his  hand 
and  passed  it  to  his  brother  agent  with  a  playful 
little  flourish.  As  the  latter  read  the  indicated  sec- 
tion Jimmy  watched  him  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye  carefully  looking  for  signs  of  approval.  Along 
about  the  second  paragraph  a  knowing  smile  began 
to  curl  the  corners  of  Mr.  Wilson's  mouth.  His 
companion  heaved  a  sigh  of  profound  satisfaction 
and  lolled  back  at  peace  with  all  the  vasty  universe. 

"That's   a   pretty   good    start,"   commented   the 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

other  handing  the  paper  back.  "Rather  a  choice 
line  of  language,  too." 

"You  said  something,"  returned  Jimmy.  "I've 
got  a  date  with  a  couple  of  those  words  the  next 
time  I  run  into  a  dictionary.  I  betcha  old  E.  Cart- 
wright  never  gets  wise.  Nothing  succeeds  like  the 
little  old  salve." 

When  the  meeting  of  Local  No.  78  of  the  Public- 
ity Promoters'  Mutual  Admiration  Society  ad- 
journed about  ten  minutes  later,  Tom  Wilson  in- 
quired if  Jimmy  was  planning  any  more  attacks  on 
the  common  enemy.  The  latter  yawned  in  simula- 
tion of  great  nonchalance. 

"Oh,  I've  got  a  few  ideas  I  hope  to  put  into  gen- 
eral circulation  before  the  day  is  over,"  he  remarked 
casually.  "Old  Henry  P.  Inspiration  has  been 
working  overtime  for  me  since  I  turned  highbrow. 
I'll  walk  down  to  the  theatre  with  you." 

Jimmy's  imagination  indulged  in  ground  and  lofty 
tumbling  on  the  way  to  the  playhouse.  It  also 
soared  and  it  may  be  stated,  with  due  regard  for 
veracity,  that  it  looped  the  loop  and  otherwise 
comported  itself  in  a  highly  sensational  manner. 
If  he  had  voiced  only  half  of  the  weird  notions  for 
publicity  that  came  to  him,  Tom  Wilson  would 
have  undoubtedly  felt  constrained  to  take  him 
firmly  by  the  arm  and  lead  him  to  an  alienist. 
Jimmy's  mind  always  worked  that  way  when  he 
was  particularly  exalted.  Usually  there  were  one 
or  two  of  the  wild  ideas  that  surged  within  him 
that  could  afterwards  stand  the  cold  light  of  reason 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

and  that  served  as  the  basis  of  successful  onslaughts 
on  the  custodians  of  newspaper  space. 

As  the  pair  approached  the  big  skyscraper  that 
housed  the  Star,  Jimmy  turned  to  his  companion. 

"You  don't  mind  if  I  drop  in  here  and  correct  an 
ad  proof,  do  you?"  he  asked. 

The  other  shook  his  head  and  they  both  entered 
the  business  office  of  the  newspaper.  Directly  con- 
fronting them  was  a  huge  sign  hung  over  the 
counter.  It  carried  this  legend  in  large  letters: 

THE  STAR'S  APPLE  PIE 

CONTEST  IS  NOW  ON 
ENTER  YOUR  PIES  EARLY 

Jimmy  stood  still  and  let  the  words  sink  in.  They 
bore  to  him  a  message  of  infinite  hope.  He  leaned 
over  eagerly  to  the  young  woman  behind  the 
counter. 

"Say,  miss,"  he  inquired.  "Where  can  I  get  the 
dope  on  this  pie  contest?" 

"Miss  Slosson,  the  pie  editor — right  in  the  back 
of  the  office  here,"  responded  the  girl. 

Jimmy  grabbed  Tom  Wilson  by  the  arm  and  led 
him  towards  the  rear  of  the  room. 

"I'm  going  to  put  it  over  on  this  sheet  again  just 
for  luck,"  he  confided. 

A  sign  reading,  "Enter  Your  Pies  Here,"  at- 
tracted them  to  a  railed-off  corner  of  the  big  office 
room.  A  stout  woman  in  the  skittish  forties,  who 
was  dressed  like  an  ingenue,  looked  up  at  them 
— 140  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

from  behind  a  table  on  which  a  number  of  luscious 
looking  apple  pies  reposed.  On  shelves  on  the  wall 
behind  her,  scores  of  other  pies,  all  tagged,  were 
arranged. 

"Is  this  contest  open  to  anyone?"  inquired  Jimmy 
bowing  pleasantly. 

"Certainly,"  gushed  the  pie  editor.  "I'm  so  glad 
to  see  gentlemen  in  this  office.  So  many  women 
have  been  in  since  we  opened  this  contest  that  it 
makes  one  feel  rather  lonesome  for  the  stronger 
sex.  Do  you  wish  to  enter  a  pie?" 

"Yes,  mam,"  replied  Jimmy  promptly. 

"Oh,  a  gentleman  cook,"  Miss  Slosson  rattled  on. 
"How  utterly  adorable.  Do  you  know  I've  always 
felt  that  there  was  no  reason  on  earth  why  a  man 
shouldn't  take  a  hand  in  the  kitchen  if  he  chose. 
It's  only  a  foolish  convention " 

"Please,  Miss  Slosson,"  broke  in  Jimmy  drown- 
ing out  a  chuckle  from  Tom  Wilson  which  seriously 
threatened  to  develop  into  a  ribald  laugh,  "please — 
the  pie  I  want  to  enter  wasn't  baked  by  myself. 
It  isn't  baked  yet  by  anyone.  I  wanted  to  know  if 
you'd  be  interested  in  having  a  pie  entered  by 
Madame  Olga  Stephano?" 

"You  mean  the  Russian  actress  who's  coming  to 
the  Standard  next  week?"  asked  Miss  Slosson. 

"Yes,  mam,"  replied  Jimmy.     "I'm  her  manager 

and  I  just  happened  to  see  the  announcement  of 

your  contest  and  I  remembered  that  she's  a  great 

cook  and  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  like  to  have  her 

—  147  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

enter  in  the  pie  stakes — that  is,  I  mean  I  thought 
you'd  like  to  have  her  bake  a  pie  and  send  it  in. 
Apple  pies  are  her  specialty.  Mr.  Wilson  here  and 
myself  ate  one  cooked  by  her  own  hand  last  sum- 
mer down  at  her  country  home  on  Long  Island. 
Remember  that  pie,  Mr.  Wilson?" 

Jimmy's  confrere  was  equal  to  the  emergency. 

"I  should  say  I  did,"  he  quickly  replied  in  his  most 
dignified  manner.  "How  could  I  ever  forget?  It 
was  a  poem,  a  real  lyric  bit  of  pastry." 

"This  is  wonderful,"  gurgled  Miss  Slosson,  "per- 
fectly wonderful!  It  will  give  just  the  filip  to  this 
thing  that  I've  been  after.  We  can  challenge  the 
women  of  the  home  to  equal  the  culinary  efforts 
of  the  women  of  the  stage.  You  understand,  of 
course,  that  we  must  insist  upon  your  entry  being 
bona-fide.  We  must  have  assurance  that  the  pie 
has  actually  been  baked  by  Madame  Stephano. 
How  will  she  be  able  to  bake  it  and  how  will  you 
get  it  here?  Our  contest  closes  the  day  after  to- 
morrow, you  know." 

"That'll  be  all  right,  Miss  Slosson,"  returned 
Jimmy.  "I'll  get  her  on  the  long  distance  phone 
just  as  soon  as  I  can  get  back  to  my  hotel.  She's 
playing  in  Chicago  and  she's  stopping  with  friends 
in  a  private  home.  She'll  bake  it  right  away  and 
I'll  get  her  to  ship  it  right  through  by  express. 
She'll  be  tickled  to  death.  The  home  is  everything 
to  her.  Most  domestic  little  woman  I  ever  met." 

"Isn't  that  too  delightful,"  responded  the  pie  edi- 
tor.    "Some  of  them  are  that  way  I  suppose.     I 
—  142  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

wonder  if  you  have  any  pictures  of  her  that  I  could 
use?" 

Jimmy  turned  a  glance  toward  his  companion  in 
which  there  was  a  gleam  of  triumph  as  he  began  to 
unbuckle  the  leather  case  he  always  carried  with 
nim. 

"I  think  that  it's  just  possible  I  may  have  one  or 
two  right  here  with  me,"  he  said.  "Yes,  isn't  that 
lucky?  Do  you  care  for  any  of  these?" 

He  handed  a  half  dozen  assorted  pictures  of  the 
great  Russian  actress  across  the  table.  Miss  Slos- 
son  picked  out  three  of  them. 

"I'll  use  one  tomorrow  morning  with  a  long  story 
about  her  entrance,"  she  said,  "and  I'll  use  one  the 
day  after,  too.  Tomorrow  I'll  run  a  picture  of  Mrs. 
fefferson  Andrews,  one  of  our  society  leaders  who 
las  entered,  right  opposite  Mme.  Stephano's.  It's 
.1  perfectly  darling  idea.  Thank  you  so  much  and 
be  sure  and  get  her  on  the  phone  right  away  and 
don't  forget  that  the  contest  closes  at  six  o'clock 
Thursday  evening. 

Jimmy  didn't  say  a  word  until  they  reached  the 
sidewalk.  Then  he  turned  to  his  friend. 

"Say,  Tom,"  he  remarked,  "you  don't  mind  wait- 
ing a  minute  while  I  pin  on  the  little  old  Croy  de 
Gerre  thing,  do  you  ?  What  do  you  think  about  the 
way  I  worked  the  bunk  on  Sarah  Ann  Slosson? 
Ain't  she  just  the  cutest  thing?" 

Tom  Wilson  looked  at  him  rather  cynically. 

"How  are  you  going  to  go  through  with  it?"  he 
asked  quietly. 

— 143  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"How  am  I  going  to  go  through  with  it?"  echoed 
Jimmy.  "Why  I'm  going  to  do  just  what  I  said  I 
was  going  to  do.  I'm  going  to  call  up  the  beautiful 
star  and  get  her  to  bake  that  pie  or  have  someone 
else  bake  it  and  I'm  going  to  call  up  Jordan,  the 
company  manager  and  have  him  tend  to  the  ship- 
ping. I'll  get  her  to  write  a  little  note  in  her  own 
handwriting  about  the  joys  of  kitchen  life  that  they 
can  use  for  a  big  splash." 

"You  will,  eh,"  retorted  Wilson.  "You  talk  as 
if  you'd  never  met  this  Stephano  person." 

"I  haven't,"  admitted  Jimmy.  "I  joined  the  show 
by  wire.  This  is  my  first  town.  They  sent  all  the 
dope  on  by  mail  and  I'm  going  to  duck  back  here 
next  week  for  the  big  pow-wow.  What  are  you 
getting  at?" 

"Oh,  nothing  much,"  replied  the  other,  "only  you 
hadn't  better  call  her  up  or  Jordan  either.  You  say 
you  were  hired  by  wire.  Well,  you'd  be  fired  the 
same  way." 

"I  don't  get  your  comedy,  Tom,"  cut  in  Jimmy  a 
bit  uneasily. 

His  friend  put  a  reassuring  hand  on  his  shoulder 
and  spoke  to  him  earnestly. 

"It  isn't  comedy,  old  man,"  he  said  quietly.  "I 
thought  you  knew  all  about  that  ladybird.  Pie  con- 
tests aren't  in  her  line.  Now  don't  misunderstand 
me.  It's  great  publicity.  I  know  that  and  I'm  for 
it  strong  and  any  regular  actress  with  any  real 
rfense  of  values  would  be,  too,  but  this  Stephano 
female  isn't  that  kind  of  a  person.  She  looks  after 

—  144  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

her  dignity  more  carefully  than  most  women  look 
after  an  only  child.  I  happened  to  be  in  Washing- 
ton last  season  when  she  let  poor  Charlie  Thompson 
out." 

"What  did  he  do?"  inquired  Jimmy  cautiously. 

"Well,  Charlie  never  started  well.  I  could  figure 
that  he  wouldn't  last  when  I  caught  a  flash  of  the 
proof  for  his  Sunday  ad  lying  on  Seymour's  desk 
over  in  Baltimore  the  week  before.  It  read,  "Olga 
Stephano  in  Ibsen's,  'A  Doll's  House' — Bring  the 
Kiddies."  I  took  Charlie  aside  and  killed  that,  and 
I  tried  to  put  him  wise,  but  he  fell  down  in  Wash- 
ington." 

"What'd  he  do  over  there?"  persisted  Jimmy  anx- 
iously. 

Wilson  retailed  at  length  the  harrowing  details 
of  the  yarn  that  rang  the  death  knell  for  Charlie 
Thompson,  Madame  Stephano  had  played  the  cap- 
ital on  Easter  week  and  Charlie  had  planted  a  story 
in  all  the  Monday  papers  stating  that  she  would 
honor  the  egg-rolling  festivities  on  the  White 
House  lawn  with  her  sacred  presence.  The  story 
further  had  it  that  she  would  sit  on  the  grassy 
sward  atop  a  little  hillock  and  personally  autograph 
one  egg  for  each  little  child  who  came  up  to  her. 
It  also  set  forth  the  delectable  information  that  she 
was  prepared  to  subsequently  roll  these  eggs  down 
the  hill  with  her  own  fair  hands  for  the  delight  and 
edification  of  the  young  ones. 

"I'm  reliably  informed  that  when  she  saw  that 
story  in  print  she  had  to  be  forcibly  restrained  from 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

jumping  out  of  the  eleventh  story  window  of  her 
hotel,"  concluded  Wilson.  "Charlie  got  his  in  Pitts- 
burgh that  night.  That  egg  rolling  stunt  isn't  any 
worse  than  a  pie  contest." 

Jimmy's  enthusiasm,  during  this  narrative,  had 
slowly  slipped  from  him  like  a  discarded  garment. 

"What  do  you  think  I'd  better  do,  Tom  ?"  he  asked. 

"If  I  were  you,  Jimmy,"  said  his  friend  gently, 
"I'd  go  back  in  there  and  call  the  whole  thing  off." 

A  hurt  look  crept  into  the  eyes  of  the  exploiter 
t  >f  Madame  Olga  Stephano. 

"Gee,  Tom,"  he  murmured.  "I  couldn't  do  that, 
little  old  Arthur  S.  Family  Pride  and  I  are  still 
buddies.  I've  got  to  go  through,  clean  through.  I  just 
couldn't  go  back  there  and  quit  cold  turkey  before  my 
new  found  friend,  Sarah  Ann.  Not  in  a  thousand 
years." 

"Well,  there's  one  thing  certain,"  responded  the 
other  with  a  note  of  finality.  "If  you  call  up  little 
Olga  or  that  trained  manager  of  hers  they'll  burn 
you  up." 

Jimmy  looked  sadly  at  his  friend. 

"Ain't  it  hell,  Tom  ?"  he  opined  grimly.  "Ain't  it 
just  double-distilled  hell?" 

He  stood  for  a  moment  staring  straight  ahead 
as  if  lost  in  abstraction.  And  then  he  found  speech 
again. 

"I  won't  call  either  of  'em  up,"  he  said  firmly, 
**but  I'm  going  to  let  that  story  ride.  There  must 
be  some  way  out  of  the  mess.  Apple  pie,  eh?  I 
never  did  like  it." 

TTT   J.  i-1  \j  -        ' 


Chapter  Nineteen 

Jimmy  wasn"t  able  to  concentrate  on  his  regular 
luties  that  afternoon.  He  had  acquired  an  obses- 
ion  and  he  couldn't  shake  it  off.  The  problem  of 
how  to  make  good  on  his  promise  to  the  gushy 
Miss  Slosson  occupied  his  entire  time  and  attention. 
A  more  careless  or  indifferent  wayfarer  in  the  field 
of  theatrical  publicity  might  have  been  content  to 
let  that  plump  and  pleasing  person  print  her  story 
on  the  following  day  and  let  it  go  at  that,  neglect- 
ing to  follow  the  idea  up  and  failing  to  redeem  his 
pledges.  Jimmy  knew  a  dozen  of  his  confreres  who 
would  just  drop  the  thing  on  the  principle  that  half 
a  loaf  is  better  than  no  bread,  but  he  wasn't  that 
kind  of  press  agent.  He  didn't  know  it,  but  he  was 
really  a  great  creative  artist  in  his  own  sphere  and 
he  got  just  the  same  inner  satisfaction  out  of  seeing 
his  ideas  blossom  into  realities  that  a  great  painter 
gets  as  he  watches  an  imagined  color  harmony 
spring  into  life  on  the  easel  before  him,  or  that  a 
stylist  thrills  to  when  he  achieves  a  perfect  phrase 
after  a  tiresome  search  for  the  inevitable  word. 

The  thought  of  apple  pie  haunted  him.  He  just 
had  to  have  one  delivered  from  Chicago  for  Miss 
Slosson,  but  how  to  accomplish  this  feat  without 
notifying  Madame  Stephano  or  her  manager  wor- 
ried him.  He  didn't  know  anyone  in  that  city  he 

—  147  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

could  trust  to  ship  one  on  in  time  and  he  rather 
figured  that  even  if  he  did  wire  or  telephone  an 
acquaintance  there  the  latter  would  take  the  request 
as  a  weird  practical  joke  of  some  sort  and  pay  no 
serious  attention  to  it. 

He  found  himself  out  in  the  street  peering  into 
bakeshop  windows  and  critically  appraising  the 
more  or  less  appetizing  pastry  displayed  therein. 
No  use  to  buy  one  of  those  pies  and  attempt  to 
work  it  off  on  Miss  Slosson,  he  thought.  They  were 
all  too  obviously  the  apple  pies  of  commerce,  pale, 
anaemic  affairs  bearing  not  even  a  remote  resem- 
blance to  the  succulent  product  of  the  home  kitchen. 
His  artist's  soul  revolted  at  the  thought  of  utilizing 
one  of  them  to  further  his  nefarious  designs. 

He  exhausted  the  possibilities  of  the  bakeries  on 
three  of  the  principal  avenues  in  the  center  of  the 
city  and  worked  himself  into  a  fine  frenzy  of  despair 
from  which  he  sought  relief  in  a  motion  picture  the- 
atre. What  was  programmed  as  a  Nonpariel  Com- 
edy was  unfolding  itself  on  the  screen  when  he  en- 
tered and  just  as  he  slid  into  a  seat  in  the  back  row 
he  beheld  a  large  object  hurtling  through  the  air 
propelled  by  the  principal  comedian.  It  struck  the 
comedy  villain  of  the  piece  full  in  the  face  with  a 
disastrously  liquid  and  messy  result. 

"My  God,  apple  pie,"  murmured  Jimmy  to  him- 
self as  he  clambered  out  into  the  aisle,  barking  the 
shins  and  stirring  up  the  latent  profanity  of  an 
irascible  looking  man  who  had  slipped  into  a  seat 
alongside  him. 


He  met  Tom  Wilson  again  that  evening  in  the 
hotel  lobby  and  they  went  into  dinner  together. 

"Don't  ask  me  about  that  story,  Tom,"  he  pleaded 
as  they  sat  down.  "I  want  to  forget  it  for  a  little 
while." 

And  he  did.  The  dinner  was  excellent,  the  waiter 
was  alert  and  extremely  polite  and  his  companion 
unbosomed  himself  of  a  flow  of  anecdotes  that  kept 
him  in  a  constant  state  of  merriment. 

"Mighty  good  dinner,  Tom,"  he  remarked  heart- 
ily near  the  end  of  the  meal,  "and  mighty  fine 
service." 

The  waiter  cleared  away  the  dishes  and  presented 
the  menu  to  Jimmy. 

"If  I  may  be  permitted,  sir,"  he  said  deferen- 
tially, "I  might  suggest  that  the  apple  pie  is  excel- 
lent tonight." 

Jimmy  pushed  his  chair  back  from  the  table  with 
such  violence  that  he  almost  upset  it. 

"You'll  be  permitted  to  take  a  punch  in  the  eye, 
Mr.  Fresh,"  he  said  bitterly  and  then  hastened  to 
apologize. 

His  companion  laughed  uproariously. 

"Still  on  your  mind,  Jimmy?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,"  retorted  the  other;  "seems  like  we're 
hooked  up  to  do  a  double  act  for  life." 

Jimmy  had  a  sleepless  night.  Every  time  he 
dropped  off  into  a  fitful  slumber  he  was  bothered 
by  a  dream  in  which  apple  pie  played  a  central  part. 
Once  he  dreamt  that  he  was  chained  to  a  pillar  in 
a  great  room  and  that  Madame  Stephano  was  forc- 

—  149  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

ing  him  to  devour  an  apparently  inexhaustible  pie 
which  stood  on  a  table  and  which  she  fed  him  with 
an  enormous  long  handled  spoon.  He  choked  so 
hard  on  one  spoonful  that  he  awoke  with  a  start. 
At  the  breakfast  table  he  read  Miss  Slosson's 
promised  story  in  the  Star.  It  was  all  that  the  most 
ambitious  purveyor  of  publicity  could  desire.  There 
was  a  four  column  headline  reading: 

STEPHANO  HURLS 
HER  ROLLING  PIN 
INTO  THE  RING 


Russian-American  Actress  Soon 
to  Visit  This  City  Enters  the 
Star's  Popular  Pie  Contest. 


STAGE  VERSUS  THE  HOME 


Underneath  was  a  big  picture  of  a  kitchen  table 
on  each  side  of  which  a  woman  was  shown  busily 
engaged  in  the  culinary  operations  that  usually  ac- 
company the  creation  of  a  pie.  The  bodies  of  these 
feminine  figures  had  been  sketched  in  by  an  artist, 
but  the  heads  were  excellent  half-tone  likenesss  of 
Madame  Stephano  and  Mrs.  Jefferson  Andrews, 
society  leader. 

—  750  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

One  look  at  the  layout  simply  added  to  Jimmy's 
misery.  After  that  he  just  had  to  make  good.  He 
strode  out  of  the  hotel  determined  to  take  a  long 
walk  to  see  if  he  couldn't  clarify  his  mental  pro- 
cesses and  get  his  imagination  oiled  up  again.  He 
was  so  busy  with  his  thoughts  that  he  paid  little 
heed  to  the  general  direction  he  was  taking  and 
presently  found  himself  in  a  corner  of  the  city  with 
which  he  was  not  familiar.  It  was  a  quiet  residen- 
tial section  and  rows  of  modest  homes  of  the  bunga- 
low type  lined  both  sides  of  -the  streets.  There  was 
a  little  group  of  shops  in  a  stucco  building  on  a 
corner  and  as  Jimmy  passed  him  he  let  his  eyes 
drift  toward  them  in  a  desultory  fashion. 

Presently  he  stopped  directly  in  front  of  one 
which  bore  this  legend  across  its  front :  "The  Buy- 
A-Cake  Shop — Home  Made  Dainties  and  Pastry."  A 
pretty  girl  dressed  in  snowy  white  with  a  cloth  in 
her  hand  was  lifting  into  the  window  one  of  the 
most  appetizing  looking  pies  he  had  ever  seen.  It 
was  a  single  crust  affair  which  had  been  baked  in 
a  deep  china  dish  of  large  proportions.  The  pastry 
looked  flaky  enough  to  crumble  at  the  touch  and 
was  a  color  symphony  in  brown.  As  Jimmy  gazed 
entranced  the  girl  set  down  a  card  in  front  of  the 
pie.  It  read :  "Mother's  Own  Apple  Pie."  Oppor- 
tunity had  knocked  and  Jimmy  answered  "present." 
He  rushed  into  the  shop. 

"I'll  take  that  pie,  miss,"  he  said  eagerly.  "I  need 
it  in  my  business." 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

As  the  young  woman  turned  to  take  it  out  of  the 
window  Jimmy  stopped  her  for  a  moment. 

"Say,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  send  that  a  long  way 
off  and  I  want  you  to  do  it  up  so  that  it  will  stand 
the  journey — you  know,  keep  fresh  and  everything 
and  not  get  mussed  up." 

"I  understand,"  responded  the  girl  in  white.  "I'll 
wrap  a  cloth  around  it  to  keep  the  air  out,  and  I'll 
fix  it  up  in  a  strong  pasteboard  box  that  I've  got 
here.  Can  you  wait?" 

"Sure  I  can,"  returned  Jimmy.  "That's  what  I've 
been  doing  for  twenty-four  hours.  I'll  smoke  a 
cigarette  outside.  Knock  on  the  window  when 
you're  ready." 

A  half  an  hour  later  he  breezed  into  the  office  of 
the  Standard  Theatre  with  a  large  bundle  under  his 
arm  and  greeted  Tom  Wilson,  who  was  looking 
through  the  morning  mail. 

"I  hear  you've  got  a  date  with  an  apple  pie  this 
morning,"  grinned  his  friend. 

"Here's  the  party,"  replied  Jimmy  setting  the 
bundle  down  on  the  table.  "The  kind  that  mother 
used  to  make  out  in  the  summer  kitchen  under  the 
lilac  vines.  You  were  in  for  the  first  act.  Do  you 
want  to  stick  around  and  watch  me  take  the  curtain 
calls  at  the  finish?" 

"Sure,"  returned  Tom  Wilson. 

"Then  come  on  back  stage,"  said  Jimmy,  pick- 
ing up  his  precious  bundle.  "I  want  to  inter- 
view the  house  property  man.  I've  got  to  have  the 

—  152  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

right  kind  of  a  production  for  this  little  stunt." 

The  property  man  proved  equal  to  the  occasion, 
after  explanations  had  been  made.  He  brought  out 
a  substantial  wooden  box  and  began  to  fill  the  bot- 
tom of  it  with  crumpled  newspapers.  Jimmy 
stopped  him. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  said.  "Never  give  'em  a 
chance  to  have  anything  on  you  is  always  my  motto. 
These  are  Cleveland  papers  and  this  box  is  supposed 
to  come  from  Chicago.  Maybe  someone  would  no- 
tice that.  Put  your  coat  on  and  dust  around  to  that 
out-of-town  newspaper  stand  over  on  Superior  Av- 
enue and  buy  a  bunch  of  yesterday's  Chicago 
papers." 

When  the  property  man  came  back  a  few  minutes 
later  and  began  to  crumple  up  the  newspapers  he 
brought  with  him,  Jimmy  turned  to  his  friend  again- 

"Not  a  bad  little  touch,  eh,  Tom?"  he  remarked. 

"Immense,"  agreed  the  other  sincerely.  "I've  got 
to  hand  it  to  you.  You  certainly  overlook  no  bets." 

The  pasteboard  box  containing  the  pie  was  care- 
fully placed  on  top  of  the  bed  of  newspapers  and 
other  papers  were  packed  in  tightly  around  and 
above  it.  The  lid  was  nailed  solidly  on  and  Jimmy 
affixed  an  express  label  addressed  to  himself.  When 
the  box  had  been  carefully  loaded  on  a  push  wagon 
in  charge  of  a  small  colored  boy  and  was  on  its 
way  down  Euclid  Avenue  toward  the  Star  office, 
personally  chaperoned  by  the  two  press  agents,  the 
conspiracy  was  completed. 


Chapter  Twenty 

E.  Cartwright  Jenkins,  dramatic  editor  of  the 
Star,  was  distinctly  displeased  with  life  as  a  whole 
and  with  humanity  in  general  that  morning.  His 
professional  dignity  had  been  subjected  to  a  series 
of  frontal  and  flank  attacks  of  great  violence  for 
nearly  twenty-four  hours  and  the  final  insult  had 
been  handed  out  by  the  managing  editor  who  had 
just  left  the  little  cubby  hole  designated  by  a 
painted  sign  as  the  "dramatic  department." 

E.  Cartwright  had  read  Jimmy's  oleaginous 
epistle  three  times  at  the  breakfast  table  the  morn- 
ing before  and  had  left  his  home  in  a  fine  glow  of 
self-approval.  In  fancy  he  walked  upon  the  misty 
mountain  tops  of  high  achievement  until  he  reached 
the  Star  office  and  then  he  found  himself  hurled 
suddenly  into  the  well  known  slough  of  despond. 
Billy  Parsons,  the  advertising  manager,  who  met 
him  in  the  elevator,  started  it. 

"Well,  old  man,"  Billy,  said  laughingly,  "I  see 
they  got  to  you  for  a  home-run  this  morning  with 
all  the  bases  full." 

E.  Cartwright  had  bristled  at  this  and  had  ex- 
pressed himself  as  not  comprehending  the  esoteric 
significance  of  the  allusion.  Billy  had  then  become 
more  specific. 

"They  put  it  over  on  you,"  he  replied.  "Tha? 
press  agent  fellow  with  Olga  Stephano,  I  mean." 

"Put  it  over  on  me?"  the  dramatic  editor  had 
returned.  "I  don't  exactly  understand  what  you 
mean." 

—  154  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"Say,  old  dear,"  Billy  had  sarcastically  responded, 
"it's  a  worse  case  than  I  thought  it  was  at  first. 
You'd  ought  to  see  a  doctor." 

E.  Cartwright,  who  abhorred  slang  and  those 
who  used  it,  had  become  quite  indignant  at  this  and 
had  insisted  upon  a  clear  explanation  of  what  Billy 
Parsons  meant.  The  latter  gentleman  obliged  him 
with  one.  He  pointed  out,  with  great  clarity,  the 
trick  that  Jimmy  Martin  had  played  on  the  astute 
and  dignified  dramatic  editor.  He  dwelt  upon  the 
number  of  times  the  name  of  Madame  Stephano 
had  been  cunningly  inserted  into  the  correspondence 
and  proved  that  the  whole  affair  was  a  carefully 
calculated  scheme  for  the  exploitation  of  that  lady. 

The  blinders  of  self-esteem  having  thus  been  torn 
from  the  eyes  of  the  dramatic  editor,  that  gentle- 
man developed  a  decided  distaste  for  further  discus- 
sion of  the  subject  and  immured  himself  in  his 
cramped  office  where  he  devoted  himself  to  bitter 
rumination.  Throughout  the  day  his  fellow  labor- 
ers in  the  field  of  journalism  seemed  to  take  a 
malicious  delight  in  playfully  taunting  him.  On  the 
wav  home  for  dinner  he  had  met  the  dramatic  editor 
"f  the  rival  Inquirer  and  that  worthy  had  added  to 
his  fury  by  remarking,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye: 

"That'  was  a  mighty  interesting  symposium  on 
Stephano  you  ran  this  morning,  Jenkins." 

At  dinner  he  startled  his  sedate  and  shrinking 
wife  by  launching  into  a  profane  and  pungent  dia- 
tribe on  the  subject  of  press  agents  and  announced 
his  determination  to  start  a  nation-wide  movement 

-'55  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

for  their  suppression  and  final  extermination.  He 
declared,  in  loud  and  ringing  tones,  that  nothing  but 
total  annihilation  of  the  entire  tribe  would  at  all 
satisfy  his  wishes  in  the  matter. 

The  sting  of  the  affair  still  rankled  in  his  breast 
when  he  came  down  to  the  office  on  the  following 
morning.  When  Nathan,  the  managing  editor, 
looked  in  on  him  he  was  viciously  assailing  the 
dramatic  page  of  a  New  York  Sunday  newspaper 
with  a  large  pair  of  shears  and  wishing  for  a  mo- 
ment, as  he  clipped  out  items  of  theatrical  infor- 
mation, that  it  was  one  Jimmy  Martin  instead  of 
an  innocent  sheet  of  paper  that  he  was  attacking. 

"Say,  Jenkins,"  Nathan  remarked  casually,  "I've 
got  a  little  request  to  make  of  you  Miss  Slosson 
who's  running  this  damned  pie  contest, — it  closes 
today,  you  know, — is  getting  swamped  downstairs 
and  has  sent  out  an  S.  O.  S.  to  this  floor  for  assist- 
ance. There's  nobody  around  yet  but  you.  I  wish 
vou'd  drop  down  there  for  an  hour  or  so  and  give 
her  a  hand.  Just  as  soon  as  one  of  the  cubs  show 
up  I'll  send  him  down  to  relieve  you." 

E.  Cartwright  reeled  under  this  final  blow  to  his 
dignity.  The  ends  of  his  iron-grey  walrus  mous- 
tache dropped  a  full  half  inch  as  he  looked  up,  be- 
wildered. 

"Pie  contest — Miss  Slosson,"  he  mumbled.  "What 
could  I  possibly  do  in  connection  with  that,  or  with 
her?" 

"Oh,  just  help  her  and  her  assistant  unwrap  and 
tag  some  of  the  entries,"  replied  Nathan  in  a  mat- 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

ter-of-fact  tone,  as  he  turned  quickly  to  suppress  a 
smile  and  hurried  out  of  the  tiny  room. 

E.  Cartwright  uttered  a  low  moan  expressive  of 
profound  and  abysmal  woe  as  he  slipped  on  his  coat 
and  prepared  to  descend  to  Miss  Slosson's  depart- 
ment. 


Jimmy  and  his  fellow  conspirator  found  Miss 
Slosson  in  her  office  almost  completely  hidden  by 
parcels  containing-  pies.  They  did  not  notice  E. 
Cartwright  at  first.  That  high  authority  on  the 
spoken  and  written  drama  was  in  the  throes  of  un- 
utterable and  indescribable  mental  anguish  at  a 
table  fifty  feet  away  untying  innumeable  bundles 
and  humming  a  hymn  of  hate  directed  at  news- 
paper work  in  general  and  soulless  managing  edi- 
tors in  particular. 

The  small  colored  boy,  grunting  under  the  weight 
of  the  wooden  box,  deposited  the  burden  on  the 
table. 

"Oh,  there  you  are,  Mr.  Martin,"  gurgled  Miss 
Slosson,  coming  forward  and  surveying  the  box 
with  interest,  "and  what  have  we  here?" 

"That's  the  little  old  pie  I  told  you  I'd  have  the 
madame  send  on,"  replied  Jimmy  glibly.  "She  made 
a  mistake  and  sent  it  to  the  theatre.  It  just  came 
bv  express  a  half  an  hour  ago  right  through  from 
Chicago." 

"Isn't  that  perfectly  wonderful,"  rhapsodized  the 
pie  editor.  "What  did  dear  Madame  Stephano  say 
when  you  spoke  to  her  over  the  phone?" 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

Jimmy  paused  for  a  moment  before  he  replied. 
He  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Star's  dramatic 
editor  who  had  turned  and  was  approaching  them. 
He  clutched  Tom  Wilson's  arm. 

"What  did  she  say,"  he  said  abstractedly.  "What 
did  she  say?  Why  she  said — she  said  she'd  turn 
down  a  Drama  League  luncheon  and  go  right  out 
in  the  kitchen  and  slip  into  a  gingham  apron,  and 
believe  me  if  you  knew  how  much  she  thinks  of 
the  Drama  League,  you'd  know  that  was  some  con- 
cession." 

E.  Cartwright  hadn't  seen  them  yet.  He  was 
apparently  almost  oblivious  of  his  surroundings  as 
he  walked  slowly  towards  Miss  Slosson. 

"I  realize  that,"  the  pie  editor  was  saying.  "She 
has  a  great,  big,  generous  nature,  I'm  sure  and  to 
think  of  her  being  so  domesticated,  too.  Oh,  Mr. 
Martin,  I  suppose  you  know  Mr.  Jenkins,  our  dra- 
matic editor.  He's  kindly  volunteered  to  help  me 
in  the  closing  hours  of  the  contest." 

Jimmy  straightened  up  and  assumed  his  most  in- 
gratiating smile.  He  had  met  the  distinguished 
critic  only  once,  several  years  before,  and  he  was 
fairly  certain  that  he  would  not  be  remembered. 

"I  had  the  honor  of  an  introduction  several  sea- 
sons ago,"  he  said  suavely,  "but  it  is  possible  that 
Mr.  Jenkins  does  not  recall  me." 

E.  Cartwright  had  given  an  unconscious  start  at 
the  sound  of  the  name  "Martin,"  but  he  seemed  to 
have  no  conscious  knowledge  of  Jimmy's  identity. 
He  smiled  sadly. 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"I  don't  seem  to  place  you,"  he  remarked  with  a 
woebegone  attempt  at  civility. 

"Mr.  Martin  is  Madame  Stephano's  advance  man- 
ager," broke  in  Miss  Slosson.  "The  dear  madame 
has  entered  a  pie  in  our  little  contest  through  him." 

Mr.  Jenkins'  facial  aspect  underwent  an  instan- 
taneous change.  He  narrowed  his  eyes  and  cor- 
rugated his  brows  and  gave  other  external  indica- 
tions of  rapidly  mounting  wrath.  Also  his  cheeks 
paled,  and  it  may  be  further  stated  that  his  rather 
gangling  frame  became  suddenly  taut  and  vibrant. 
He  eyed  Jimmy  for  fully  ten  seconds  and  then 
turned  to  Miss  Slosson. 

"It  is  my  duty  to  inform  you,  madame,"  he  said 
in  a  voice  that  was  tense  with  emotion,  "that  this 
person  is  a  press  agent  who  will  use  you  for  his  own 
selfish  ends — a  paid  hireling  of  an  unscrupulous 
management  which  has  only  one  purpose  in  mind — 
deceit  and  rank  trickery." 

Jimmy  started  to  expostulate,  but  Tom  Wilson 
gave  him  a  vicious  elbow  jab  which  effectively  cut 
off  anv  utterance  on  his  part.  Miss  Slosson  smiled 
serenelv. 

"Don't  be  too  hard  on  him,  dear  Mr.  Jenkins," 
she  remonstrated.  "He  has  been  a  great  help  in  our 
effort  to  raise  the  general  tone  of  culinary  excel- 
lence. He  represents  a  most  estimable  lady,  and  if 
she  ge?s  a  little  publicity  out  of  it  she  deserves  it 
after  all  the  trouble  she  has  gone  to — baking  a  pie 
with  her  own  hands  and  sending  it  on  here  all  the 
way  from  Chicago.  We  mustn't  be  too  selfish." 
—  75P  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"I  warn  you,  madame,  that  there  is  fraud  here 
some  place,"  persisted  the  dramatic  editor,  "down^ 
right  fraud  and  deception.  These  gentlemen  have  a 
depraved  talent  for  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Nonsense,"  broke  in  the  pie  editor  beckoning  to 
an  office  boy  whose  job  it  was  to  open  such  entries 
as  were  encased  in  substantial  packages.  As  the 
youngster  assailed  the  box  she  chirruped  on.  "I'm 
using  another  picture  of  the  dear  lady  in  tomor- 
row's paper,  Mr.  Martin,  and  I'll  announce  the  ar- 
rival of  her  contribution  in  the  opening  paragraph. 
I'm  just  crazy  to  see  it.  Quite  a  large  box,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  murmured  Jimmy.  "She  certainly  seems 
to  have  done  the  thing  up  brown." 

He  was  the  picture  of  serene  self-satisfaction  as 
he  watched  the  lid  coming  off  the  box.  The  pros- 
pect of  triumphing  over  E.  Cartwrighf  a  second 
time  filled  him  with  an  almost  ecstatic  joy. 

When  the  lid  was  removed  Mr.  Jenkins  darted 
toward  the  box  and  pulled  out  the  tufts  of  crumpled 
newspapers.  He  carefully  unfolded  one  and  looked 
at  it.  Jimmy  caught  Tom  Wilson's  eye  at  this 
juncture  and  winked  his  off  eye  prodigiously.  E. 
Cartwright,  upon  observing  the  heading  and  the 
date  line  in  the  paper,  threw  it  down  impatiently 
and  began  nervously  to  chew  the  ends  of  his  mous- 
tache. 

"We've  got  old  George  B.  Grouch's  goat  all 
right,"  confided  Jimmy  behind  his  hand. 

Miss  Slosson  untied  the  string  and  lifted  out  the 
pie  which  was  frghtly  swathed  in  a  piece  of  old 
— 160  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

linen.  She  undid  the  wrapping  slowly  while  the  in- 
terested spectators  gathered  close  around  her.  The 
careful  young  woman  in  the  bake  shop  had  placed  a 
piece  of  cardboard  over  the  top  of  the  deep  china 
dish,  and  when  this  was  removed  Miss  Slosson 
positively  bubbled  with  delight  as  she  caught  sight 
of  the  golden  brown  crust  of  the  wonderful  pie. 

"It  looks  perfectly  heavenly,"  she  remarked. 
"Perfectly  heavenly." 

"A  masterpiece,"  broken  in  the  hitherto  silent  Mr. 
Wilson. 

"I  told  you  she'd  bake  one  that  would  win  in  a 
walk,"  was  Jimmy's  contribution  to  the  glad  chorus 
of  acclaim. 

E.  Cartwright  didn't  have  a  word  to  say.  He 
stood  with  his  hands  on  his  hips  watching  the  two 
press  agents  with  a  look  that  still  betrayed  cynical 
distrust. 

"Won't  you  please  put  it  over  there  on  that  little 
table  all  by  itself,  Mr.  Jenkins,"  said  Miss  Slosson. 
"It  certainly  deserves  a  place  of  honor." 

Mr.  Jenkins  grunted  and  hesitated  for  a  moment. 
He  was  too  chivalrous  at  heart,  however,  to  refuse 
to  obey  a  lady's  behest  no  matter  how  much  humili- 
ation he  might  suffer.  He  grasped  both  sides  of  the 
pie-dish  firmly,  lifted  it  high  in  the  air  and  began 
to  turn.  Jimmy  was  looking  at  him  with  ill-con- 
cealed delight.  As  he  watched  a  look  of  intense 
agony  spread  over  the  dramatic  editor's  face.  The 
next  instant  that  gentleman  dropped  the  pie  with  a 
sharp  cry  of  pain. 

—  7(57  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"It's  hot,"  he  screamed,  "red  hot!" 

The  dish  smashed  into  a  hundred  pieces  on  the 
counter  and  the  surrounding  atmosphere  was  filled 
with  flying  fragments  of  pie.  Jimmy  felt  something 
warm  and  sticky  on  his  face  and  he  noticed  with 
dismay  that  the  front  of  Miss  Slosson's  silk  dress 
was  a  sorry  looking  mess.  Tom  Wilson's  clothes 
were  smeared  with  debris,  too.  E.  Cartwright  was 
wiping  apple  juice  out  of  both  eyes  and  uttering 
words  that  caused  the  pulse  beats  of  Madame 
Stephano's  personal  representative  to  diminish  al- 
most to  the  vanishing  point. 

"A  pair  of  damned  fakirs,"  he  shouted.  "Baked 
in  Chicago,  eh,  and  shipped  on  here  by  express !  It 
hasn't  been  out  of  the  oven  an  hour.  Thought 
they'd  put  one  over  on  us  again,  did  they?  I  know 
'em.  I  know  *em." 

The  tragic  climax  of  Jimmy's  little  three  act 
comedy  came  with  such  unexpected  suddenness  that 
he  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  tumult  and  the  shouting 
like  one  transfixed.  It  was  a  rout,  an  utter  and 
complete  defeat,  the  most  disastrous  and  the  most 
humiliating  of  his  career.  In  a  flash  he  pictured  it 
becoming  a  classic  anecdote  that  would  be  bandied 
to  and  fro  by  his  professional  brethren  in  Pullman 
smoking  rooms  and  theatre  offices  for  years  with- 
out number. 

He  looked  up  and  about  him.  Enemies  were  surg- 
ing toward  him  from  all  directions  apparently  bent 
on  his  destruction.  And  then  he  remembered  Tom 
Wilson.  He  turned  around.  That  worthy  had  de- 
—  162  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

parted  as  if  on  the  wings  of  the  morning.  The  dis- 
hevelled and  distraught  editor  had  apparently  ex- 
hausted his  vocabulary  of  vituperation  and  was  ap- 
proaching him  with  a  savage  look  in  his  eye  flanked 
on  one  side  by  a  distinguished  looking  gentleman 
with  a  most  authoritative  manner  who  had  rushed 
to  the  scene  from  a  nearby  office.  Jimmy  realized 
that  it  was  no  place  or  time  for  heroics.  He  turned 
and  fled  precipitately  down  an  unencumbered  aisle 
in  the  general  direction  of  the  open  air. 

He  caught  up  with  Tom  Wilson  two  blocks  down 
the  avenue.  That  gentleman  was  still  going  strong 
and  seemed  to  need  no  pace-maker. 

"The  first  bet  I  ever  overlooked,  Tom,"  he  puffed 
as  he  swung  alongside.  "What'll  we  do?" 

"What'll  we  do?"  facetiously  echoed  the  other, 
gripping  him  firmly  by  the  arm  and  dragging  him 
along.  "Where'll  we  hide,  you  mean?" 


-id?- 


Chapter  Twenty -One 

The  name  of  Madame  Olga  Stephano  was  con- 
spicuously absent  from  the  columns  of  the  Star  next 
morning,  but  this  fact  passed  unnoticed  by  one 
James  Martin,  who  had  moved  on  to  the  next  town, 
unwept,  unhonored  and  unsung.  Gone  was  the 
rakish  tilt  to  his  derby  hat  and  vanished  like  the 
roses  of  yesterday  were  the  glad,  eager  look  and  the 
jaunty  bearing  that  usually  distinguished  him  as  one 
upon  whom  fortune  was  wont  to  smile.  Gloom  was 
in  his  heart  and  a  sweet  melancholy  pervaded  his 
thoughts. 

A  letter  dated  before  Jimmy's  fatal  first  meeting 
with  Miss  Slosson,  awaited  him  at  the  theatre.  It 
brought  tidings  that  did  not  have  a  tendency  to 
make  life  more  interesting.  It  was  from  Jordan, 
Madame  Stephano's  personal  manager  on  tour  with 
the  company,  and  it  summoned  him  back  to  Cleve- 
land for  the  opening  performance  on  Monday  night. 

"There  are  many  matters  on  which  Madame 
Stephano  and  myself  wish  to  consult  with  you,"  the 
letter  ran,  "among  them  being  the  methods  of  pub- 
licity best  calculated  to  further  her  interests  as  a 
star.  Our  appeal,  as  you  know,  is  to  the  intellec- 
tual element  in  the  community  and  you  must  care- 
fully avoid  anything  in  the  nature  of  cheap  or  sen- 
sational stories  or  what  are  vulgarly  known  as 
— 164  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

'stunts.'  We  will  go  into  this  at  greater  length 
when  I  see  you." 

"I'm  in  for  a  spring  canning,  "Jimmy  observed 
to  the  manager  of  the  theatre  when  he  had  finished 
reading  Jordan's  letter.  "I  wouldn't  mind  that  so 
much  if  I  could  have  got  my  exit  cue  in  a  blaze  of 
glory,  but  this  thing  of  being  bumped  off  on  top  of 
an  awful  fall-down  like  that  gets  under  the  little 
old  epidermis." 

Madame  Stephano  occasionally  varied  her  Ibsen 
repertoire  with  performances  of  plays  by  other 
European  dramatists.  She  had  chosen  a  modern 
Spanish  tragedy  for  her  opening  in  Cleveland,  and 
the  first  act  was  under  way  when  a  certain  forlorn 
looking  figure  slouched  wearily  into  the  manager's 
office  and  moodily  inquired  for  Mr.  Jordan.  The 
company  manager,  a  thoroughly  house-broken  slave 
to  the  temperamental  caprices  of  the  star,  came 
forward. 

"I'm  Martin,"  gloomily  vouchsafed  the  visitor. 

"You  are,  eh?"  responded  the  manager,  acridly, 
looking  him  over  with  indifferently  concealed  scorn. 
"We've  been  waiting  for  you  all  day." 

"Who  do  you  mean  by  'we'?"  timidly  inquired 
the  chastened  press  agent. 

"Why,  the  madame  and  myself.  We  were  curi- 
ous to  see  what  you  looked  like.  You  seem  fairly 
intelligent." 

Ordinarily  Jimmy  would  have  resented  the  im- 
plied sneer  in  this  remark  and  would  have  flared  up 
with  an  indignant  rejoinder,  but  his  spirit  seemed 

-165- 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

crushed  to  earth  never  to  rise  again.  The  surround- 
ing atmosphere  was  to  him  pregnant  with  impend- 
ing tragedy.  He  contented  himself  with  a  nervous 
little  laugh. 

"I've  never  been  accused  of  it,"  he  said  foolishly. 

"Of  course,  we've  heard  about  your  ridiculous 
fiasco  last  week,"  went  on  Jordan.  "You've  cer- 
tainly let  yourself  in  for  it  with  the  madame.  I 
wonder  what  you  think  this  attraction  is,  anyway — 
a  circus  side  show  or  a  cabaret?  I'll  give  you 
credit,  though.  You  had  a  cast  iron  nerve  to  at- 
tempt such  a  thing  with  her.  They  say  God  looks 
after  fools  and  drunken  folks.  I  hope  He's  on  your 
side  tonight." 

Jimmy  gulped  before  he  made  reply. 

"Is  she — is  she  a  little  annoyed?"  he  stammered. 

"Yes,  just  a  little,"  laughed  the  other  sarcas- 
tically. "Just  a  wee  bit  put  out.  It's  hardly  worth 
mentioning,  but  if  I  were  you  I'd  stick  around  on 
this  side  of  the  footlights  until  after  the  show. 
We've  got  eighteen  hundred  inside  tonight  and  I 
wouldn't  like  to  have  to  give  the  money  back. 
Something  might  happen  if  you  went  back  stage. 
I'll  see  you  later." 

He  slipped  into  an  inner  office  and  Jimmy  was 
left  alone  with  his  misery.  He  wandered  out  into 
the  brilliantly  lighted  lobby  and  sauntered  into  the 
auditorium  for  his  first  view  of  the  great  actress. 
She  was  on  the  stage  as  he  entered  and  he  peered 
at  her  from  behind  the  plush  curtains  which  hung 
back  of  the  last  row  of  seats.  She  was  playing  a 
— 166— 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

scene  of  brisk  and  brittle  comedy  and  she  moved 
about  the  stage  with  all  the  lithe  and  lissome  grace 
of  a  beautiful  tiger.  She  was  making  mordant 
mockery  of  another  woman  in  the  play,  assailing 
her  with  wicked  rapier  thrusts  of  biting  wit  and 
smiling  a  smile  that  struck  terror  into  Jimmy's 
heart.  There  was  a  malicious  gleam  in  her  black 
eyes  that  fascinated  him.  They  seemed  to  his  over- 
wrought imagination  like  the  nasty  eyes  of  a  ser- 
pent he  had  once  seen  in  a  glass  case  in  the  zoo. 
He  shuddered  with  apprehension. 

As  the  curtain  fell  and  the  lights  went  up  he 
caught  sight  of  the  figure  of  E.  Cartwright  Jen- 
kins coming  up  the  aisle.  He  effaced  himself  with 
surprising  suddenness  by  making  for  the  nearest 
exit  door.  It  led  to  a  fire-escape  and  he  stood  there 
in  the  semi-darkness  letting  the  cool  night  air 
soothe  his  fevered  brow  and  trying  to  collect  his 
befuddled  train  of  thought.  This  last  was  impos- 
sible. All  that  he  seemed  able  to  comprehend  was 
that  he  was  in  for  the  most  disagreeable  experi- 
ence of  his  fair  young  life,  and  that  there  was  no 
possible  escape  from  it  except  in  flight.  He  was 
too  good  a  soldier  to  run  away.  That  much  was 
certain. 

When  the  lights  went  out  again  and  the  second 
act  began  Jimmy  resumed  his  place  behind  the  cur- 
tains once  more  and  continued  his  observations  of 
Madame  Stephano.  It  was  in  this  act  that  the  "big 
scene"  of  the  play  occurred,  the  scene  in  which  the 
outraged  wife  reversed  to  the  primitive  passions  of 
—  7(57  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

her  Andalusian  peasant  ancestors  and  made  things 
decidedly  uncomfortable  for  her  husband  and  sev- 
eral other  characters  in  the  piece.  It  was  full  of 
lines  in  which,  as  the  old  actor  said,  "one  could  get 
one's  teeth  into"  and  it  may  be  stated  that  the 
famous  Russian-American  actress  played  it  for  all 
it  was  worth  and  then  some.  She  erupted,  exploded, 
and  otherwise  comported  herself  in  an  extremely 
violent  and  disturbing  manner.  As  a  final  touch  she 
committed  aggravated  assault  and  battery  on  the 
person  of  her  husband  and  wound  up  the  festivities 
by  making  a  general  wreck  of  the  drawing  room  in 
which  the  scene  was  laid.  Jimmy  watched  the  early 
proceedings  with  growing  distrust.  When  the  final 
nerve-shattering  moment  arrived  and  the  curtain 
fell  amid  a  wild  uproar  from  the  audience  he  found 
himself  sagging  and  he  clutched  a  pillar  for  sup- 
port. A  clammy  perspiration  bespangled  his  brow. 
He  felt  decidedly  sick  and  he  longed  for  the  com- 
forts of  home  and  the  quiet  ministrations  of  some 
gentle  female  who  would  soothe  and  mother  him. 

In  a  daze,  he  sauntered  out  into  the  lobby  again. 
Jordan,  who  had  just  come  back  from  back  stage, 
touched  him  on  the  arm. 

"The  madame  wishes  to  see  you  right  after  the 
last  act,"  he  remarked  with  a  sinister  smile. 

Only  that  and  nothing  more.  He  turned  on  his 
heel  and  disappeared  into  the  office.  Jimmy  leaned 
against  the  wall  and  eyed  with  envy  the  noisy  and 
laughing  throng  of  men  who  had  come  out  for  a 
smoke  between  the  acts. 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

At  precisely  the  same  time  an  usher  slipped  down 
one  of  the  theatre  aisles,  touched  E.  Cartwright 
Jenkins  on  the  shoulder  and  handed  him  a  note. 
The  critic  adjusted  his  glasses  and  tore  it  open.  This 
is  what  he  read: 

Mon  Cher  Jenkins: — 

May  I  not  give  myself  the  great  pleasure  of 
meeting  you  for  a  moment  after  the  play?  I 
have  for  many  years  been  an  admirer  of  your 
great  and  most  excellent  genius,  and  I  have 
had  what  is  called  the  longing  to  greet  you. 
I  have  had  the  hesitation  of  asking  to  see  you 
as  I  know  you  are  a  most  busy  man.  Tonight 
there  is  a  matter  of  the  so  great  importance 
that  I  would  speak  to  you  concerning.  Please, 
my  dear  sir,  do  me  this  very  high  honor,  I  im- 
plore you. 

OLGA  STEPHANO. 

E.  Cartwright  smiled  expansively.  It  may  also 
be  remarked  that  he  beamed  and  it  may  be  further 
added  that  he  felt  himself  once  more  securely  affixed 
upon  a  pedestal  in  his  personal  Hall  of  Fame 

The  final  moment  of  the  Spanish  play  found 
Madame  Stephano  sitting  alone  at  the  dinner  table 
in  the  heroine's  home.  Fate  and  the  fell  clutch  of 
circumstance  had  resulted  in  her  estrangement  from 
her  family  and  from  her  friends  and  she  had  dined 
alone.  As  the  curtain  fell,  disillusioned  and  miser- 
able, she  dropped  her  head  in  her  hands  and  sobbed 
bitterly. 

— 169  — 


Thresh  Every  Hour 

Jimmy,  having  been  assured  that  his  nemesis 
would  be  on  the  stage  throughout  the  entire  act, 
had  tip-toed  back  when  the  scene  was  half  finished. 
A  hopeless  fear  gnawed  at  his  vitals,  but  he  tried 
to  put  on  a  brave  face.  He  watched  the  curtain 
descend  from  a  place  in  the  wings  and  he  saw  it 
rise  again  and  again  in  response  to  tumultuous  ap- 
plause. The  actress,  artist  that  she  was,  never 
raised  her  head  or  stepped  out  of  the  picture. 

After  the  last  call  had  been  taken  he  heard  the 
orchestra  strike  up  the  exit  march.  Determined  to 
get  the  unpleasant  business  over  with  he  stepped 
through  a  door  leading  to  the  boxed-off  scene.  To 
his  utter  bewilderment  at  precisely  the  same  mo- 
ment there  entered  upon  the  scene  from  the  oppo- 
site side  no  less  a  personage  than  E.  Cartwright 
Jenkins.  That  gentleman's  buoyant  air  of  self-con- 
fidence and  serene  self-approval  left  him  with  an 
abruptness  that  was  startling.  He  stopped  his 
progress  and  stood  rooted  to  the  spot.  The  two 
gazed  at  each  other  in  amazement.  E.  Cartwright's 
lips  moved,  but  he  found  himself  inarticulate. 
Swayed  by  a  common  impulse  they  both  turned  to 
Madame  Stephano. 

That  lady  still  sat  with  her  head  in  her  hands.  As 
they  looked  she  raised  herself  slowly  and  gazed 
from  one  to  the  other.  A  nasty  glint  came  into  her 
eyes.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  so  suddenly  that  she 
overturned  the  chair  in  which  she  had  been  sitting. 
She  swept  a  long  arm  out  in  front  of  her  body  and 
shook  it  at  them  both  in  turn. 
— 170  — 


Fresh  Every    Hour 

Jimmy  instinctively  put  up  his  guard.  E.  Cart- 
wright's  face  paled. 

"You  have  come,  eh?"  screamed  Madame  Ste- 
phano,  "you  are  both  here.  You  have  come  tp  let 
me  tell  you  what  I  zink  of  you,  eh?" 

Her  voice  was  stridently  intense  and  her  whole 
face  was  ablaze  with  uncontrolled  fury.  Her  accent 
was  more  marked  than  usual.  She  poured  out  her 
words  with  a  rapidity  that  was  amazing. 

"You  have  come  to  let  me  tell  you  both  zat  you 
have  insult  Olga  Marie  Stephano  and  zat  Olga 
Marie  Stephano  does  not  let  herself  be  made  ze 
target  for  ze  insult.  You  poor  leetle  fool,  you" — 
this  to  Jimmy — "you  have  meex  my  name  up  with 
zis  crazee  pastree  pie  announcement.  Am  I  to  have 
no  deegnety.  Is  Olga  Marie  Stephano  a  cook  or 
an  actress — wheech?  And  you,  Meestaire  Cart- 
wright  Jeenkens,  your  paper  it  preent  zis  crazee 
theeng,  it  preent  it  and  it  make  me  into  one  great, 
beeg,  foolish  crazee — what  you  call? — what  you 
call,  I  say? — one  great,  beeg,  foolish,  crazee  dam 
fool.  Eet  ees  too  much,  oh,  much  too  much.  Mon 
Dieu,  mon  Dieu — eet  ees  too  much." 

She  paused,  her  bosom  heaving  like  a  prima 
donna's  after  an  aria.  Her  two  visitors  began  to 
back  gingerly  away.  She  looked  from  one  to  the 
other  and  then  there  slowly  broke  upon  her  face,  a 
smile.  It  came  like  a  blessed  benison,  and  it  pres- 
ently merged  into  a  laugh,  light  and  silvery  at  first 
and  then  hearty  and  uncontrolled. 

"Gentlemen,"  she  said  sweetly  when  the  laughter 
had  died  down,"  excuse  me,  please,  eef  I  make  such 
—  171  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

a  laugh.  You  look  so  funee.  Pardonnez  moi,  par- 
donnez  moi.  Eet  ees  just  my  leetle  joke,  gentle- 
men, just  my  leetle  joke.  I  have  here  one  grand 
surprise  for  you.  Voila ! !" 

With  all  the  easy  grace  and  dexterity  of  a  presti- 
digitator she  rached  toward  the  table  and  plucked 
a  napkin  off  a  dish  in  the  centre.  To  the  astonished 
eyes  of  the  press  agent  and  the  dramatic  editor 
there  was  revealed  an  apple  pie  that  transcended 
in  appearance  even  that  famous  piece  of  pastry 
which  had  met  with  such  a  disastrous  end  in  the 
Star  office  a  few  days  before. 

"Will  you  not  please  take  seats,"  cooed  the  ac- 
tress. 

Her  hypnotized  guests  dropped  into  chairs. 
Madame  Stephano  took  the  place  between  them. 
At  her  side  was  a  bowl  filled  with  whipped  cream. 
Ample  portions  of  the  pie  were  anointed  with  this 
by  her  own  hands  and  served.  A  mouthful  of  the 
delicious  dessert  proved  to  each  its  surpassing  ex- 
cellence. The  actress  watched  them  eat  with  par- 
donable pride. 

"Meestaire  Jimmy,"  she  said,  turning  to  the  now 
thoroughly  flabbergasted  press  agent.  "I  have  play 
zis  leetle  scene  to — what  you  call  it? — to  make 
good.  I  have  hear  all  about  zat  affaire  of  ze  hot 
pie.  I  have  invite  Meestaire  Jenkeens  to  let  heem 
see  zat  I  really  can  bake  ze  apple  pie  pastree.  I 
bake  heem  in  ze  hotel  keetchen  zis  afternoon.  It 
was  funee — zat  hot  pie,  eh? 

— 172  — 


She  had  turned  to  E.  Cartwright.  Concealed 
somewhere  about  his  person  that  worthy  gentleman 
had  a  slight  sense  of  humor  which  occasionally 
revealed  itself.  This  was  one  of  the  occasions.  He 
laughed  heartily.  When  he  left  a  few  minutes  after- 
wards to  write  his  review  the  entente  cordiale  had 
been  re-established  between  himself  and  Jimmy. 
She  had  a  way  with  her  when  she  chose,  had 
Madame  Stephano,  and  never  were  her  wiles  more 
effectively  utilized  than  a  moment  later  when  she 
found  herself  alone  with  her  press  agent. 

"Meestaire  Jimmy,"  she  purred.  "I  have  for 
many  years  been  ze  foolish  woman.  I  have  been 
too  much  what  you  Americans  so  quaintly  call — ze 
up  stage.  I  have  tried  to  be  oh,  so  deegnefied,  so 
very  much  deegnefied.  I  was  mad  wiz  you,  Mees- 
taire Jimmy,  when  I  read  about  ze  pie  and  when  I 
hear  yesterday  about  ze  catastrophe  in  ze  news- 
paper office  I  could  have  keel  you.  But  I  find  I 
have  ze  beegest  advance  sale  I  have  ever  had,  and 
I  have  change  my  mind.  I  am  going  to  lose  my 
deegnety,  Meestaire  Jimmy.  Go  ahead,  Meestaire 
Jimmy,  you  tell  ze  lies  and  I  will — what  you  call 
him  again — I  will — make  good." 

"Say,  Madame,  responded  Jimmy,  whose  self- 
assurance  once  more  enveloped  him  like  an  aura, 
"do  you  know  what  you  are?" 

"No,  Meestaire  Jimmy.     What  I  am?" 

"I'll  say  you're  one  regular  guy." 


—  173  — 


Chapter  Twenty-Two 

Madame  Olga  Stephano  continued  to  be  a  "regu- 
lar guy"  for  the  remainder  of  the  season,  but  when 
the  summer  rolled  around  Jimmy  began  to  feel  that 
his  enthusiasm  for  the  cause  in  the  future  would 
depend  entirely  upon  an  utterly  sordid  matter  of 
dollars  and  cents.  He  politely  suggested  that  a 
more  obese  emolument  every  Saturday  night  would 
make  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  Madame  Ste- 
phano exploded  like  a  giant  firecracker,  shrugged 
her  shapely  shoulders  and  walked  away. 

Jimmy  thereupon  decided  to  leave  the  uplift  flat 
on  its  back.  He  gave  in  his  notice  and  the  next  day 
a  summons  from  Chester  Bartlett  reached  him. 
Bartlett  offered  him  a  place  as  press  agent  for  his 
newest  musical  comedy,  "Keep  Moving"  at  a  salary 
which  exceeded  the  demand  which  Madame  Ste- 
phano had  rejected  by  twenty-five  dollars  a  week. 
Jimmy  went  into  executive  session  with  himself  and 
considered  a  motion  for  a  reconsideration  of  his 
previously  avowed  determination  to  "keep  off  song 
and  dance  shows  for  life."  It  was  passed  by  a 
unanimous  vote. 

Jimmy  smiled  cynically  one  Saturday  night  in 
the  early  fall  as  he  stood  on  the  Boylston  Street 
curb  and  watched  a  great  throng  of  Boston  amuse- 
ment seekers  filing  through  the  main  entrance  of 

—  174  — 


the  Colonial  Theatre.  He  was  a  backslider  and  an 
apostate,  but  he  was  no  longer  conscious  of  any 
scruples  in  the  premises.  His  cynical  aspect  on  this 
particular  occasion  was  the  result  of  his  contempla- 
tion of  the  sign  which  outlined  in  incandescent 
brilliance  over  the  portals  of  the  playhouse  the 
name  of  his  new  affiliation.  It  seemed  to  him  to  be, 
for  a  moment,  a  symbol  of  his  downfall  and  dis- 
grace. 

His  smile  lost  its  hardness  a  minute  later,  how- 
ever, and  became  something  a  shade  softer  and 
more  human.  A  vagrant  memory  of  a  certain 
young  person  from  Cedar  Rapids,  Iowa, — a  young 
person  whom  Jimmy  held  in  the  highest  regard — 
had  crossed  his  train  of  thought.  It  was  pleasant 
to  think  that  Lolita  Murphy  was  close  at  hand  and 
that  when  the  performance  was  over  he  could  walk 
across  the  Common  with  her  to  her  hotel,  whisper 
words  of  endearment,  and  bask  in  the  effulgence 
of  the  smiles  which  she  so  lavishly  bestowed  upon 
him. 

Lolita,  released  from  the  oblivion  of  her  drudgery 
as  a  player  in  the  Mt.  Vernon  Stock  Company,  still 
cherished  a  great  and  overwhelming  ambition  to 
climb  the  ladder  of  theatrical  fame  and  carelessly 
brush  off  the  more  or  less  distinguished  celebrities 
who,  she  felt,  encumbered  the  topmost  rung. 

She  had  reluctantly  consented  to  accept  a  minor 
position  in  the  "Keep  Moving"  company  at  Jimmy's 
behest.  The  latter,  filled  with  a  pardonable  desire 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

to  be  near  her,  had  convinced  her  that  a  little  musi- 
cal comedy  experience  was  a  necessary  part  of  her 
theatrical  training  and  had  persuaded  Bartlett  to 
give  her  a  microscopic  part  in  the  piece.  In  the  first 
act  she  separated  herself  from  the  ranks  of  the 
chorus  and  remarked  "Here  conies  the  prince  now." 
In  the  second  act  she  was  the  hat-check  girl  in  the 
scene  depicting  the  entrance  to  the  dining-room  of 
the  Carlton  Hotel  and  was  called  upon  to  say  "think 
you're  fresh,  don't  you?"  to  the  principal  comedian. 
In  the  third  and  final  act  she  was  one  of  the  brides- 
maids in  the  ragtime  wedding  number. 

Jimmy,  it  must  be  confessed,  had  begun  to 
strongly  suspect  that  Lolita  would  eventually  find 
out  that  the  American  stage  would  be  able  to  worry 
along  without  her  assistance  if  the  worst  came  to 
the  worst  and  that  destiny  had  not  selected  her  to 
snatch  the  laurels  from  the  brow  of  Mrs.  Fiske. 
That  was  one  of  the  reasons  which  impelled  him  to 
suggest  that  she  associate  herself  with  "Keep  Mov- 
ing." He  didn't  want  her  to  have  any  heart-aches 
or  artistic  growing  pains  and  he  felt  that  she  could 
be  spared  much  distress  and  disillusion  if  he  were 
on  the  sidelines  at  all  times  with  words  of  cheer 
and  encouragement. 

A  smart  limousine  drew  up  alongside  him  and 
Chester  Bartlett,  "classiest"  of  musical  comedy  en- 
trepeneurs  alighted,  bringing  with  him  something 
of  the  flair  of  a  Parisian  boulevard  as  contrasted 
with  the  Broadway  manner  which  usually  character- 
ized theatrical  men  in  his  particular  field  of  cn- 
— 176  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

deavor.  University  man,  cosmopolite,  patron  of 
amateur  sports,  big  game  hunter  and  intimate  of 
distinguished  literary  men  in  a  half  dozen  coun- 
tries, Chester  Bartlett  was  a  unique  figure  in  the 
realm  of  twinkly-toes  and  tinkly  music.  Ae  he  came 
towards  Jimmy  he  seemed  to  exude  such  a  sugges- 
tion of  perfect  poise  and  supreme  savoir  faire  that 
the  press  agent  felt  for  a  moment  as  if  he  should 
applaud. 

"Hello,  old  man,"  said  Bartlett  jovially.  "What 
song  doth  our  troubadour  sing  next?  You'll  have 
to  woo  the  muse  in  accents  soft  and  low  if  you 
expect  to  equal  her  performance  this  morning  for 
your  young  friend  down  at  the  Colonial.  That 
story  had  a  tang  that  was  delightful.  Don't  you 
think  so?" 

The  manager  had  intended  to  pierce  Jimmy's 
Achillian  heel  and  he  had  succeeded.  If  there  was 
anything  that  stirred  the  latent  energies  that  lay 
dormant  in  the  press  agent's  soul  and  filled  him 
with  the  fierce  and  fiery  zest  of  a  crusader  it  was 
praise  of  a  rival's  achievements.  And  that  fellow 
down  at  the  Colonial  had  put  one  over  that  morn- 
ing. There  was  no  gainsaying  that.  His  story 
about  the  group  of  chorus  girls  who  had  organized 
a  Back  to  Nature  club  and  who  had  elected  to  live 
in  tents  on  the  roof  of  one  of  the  biggest  hotels 
in  town  had  landed  with  a  splash  and  an  extensive 
pictorial  lay-out  in  every  paper  in  town.  Jimmy 
had  been  nursing  a  grouch  all  day  because  he  hadn't 
thought  of  the  idea  first.  He  didn't  permit  any 
— 177  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

outward  signs  of  his  annoyance  to  reach  Bartlett, 
however.  He  assumed  his  customary  jaunty  air  of 
sublime  self-confidence  in  making  reply. 

"I'll  say  it  was  pretty  good,"  he  said,  "but  I've 
got  something  about  ready  to  spring  that'll  send 
that  fellow  down  for  the  count  in  the  first  round. 
I've  got  a  date  with  this  Emily  Ann  Muse  party 
tomorrow  morning  and  when  she's  listened  to  what 
I've  got  to  say  she'll  jump  through  the  paper  hoop 
at  the  word  of  command." 

Bartlett  laughed  good-naturedly.  Jimmy's  daz- 
zling metaphorical  flights  and  picturesque  similes 
were  a  constant  source  of  piquant  delight  to  him. 

"You're  not  quite  as  modest  as  the  cooing  dove," 
he  remarked,  "but  you're  a  darned  sight  more  di- 
verting. I  hope  you're  going  to  get  our  stately 
queens  into  the  web  you  are  weaving.  I  rather 
fancy  they're  on  the  war-path  tonight  after  all  the 
notoriety  their  sisters  in  art  got  today." 

"Don't  worry,"  replied  Jimmy.  "They're  goin' 
to  be  right  in  the  little  old  center  of  the  stage  with 
baby  spot  lights  playin'  on  'em  from  all  sides.  There 
won't  be  anythin'  doin'  for  about  thirty-six  hours  or 
so,  though.  I  can't  open  cold  with  this  act.  I've 
got  to  call  a  rehearsal." 

Bartlett  chuckled  and  strolled  into  the  lobby.  As 
Jimmy  watched  his  trim  figure  disappear  past  the 
door-man  at  the  far  end  he  experienced  a  sinking 
sensation  that  was  decidedly  unpleasant.  He  sud- 
denly realized  that  in  a  moment  of  expansiveness 
induced  by  jealousy  of  a  hated  rival  he  had  drawn 
-178- 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

a  check  against  a  sadly  depleted  bank  account.  As 
a  matter  of  plain,  ungarnished  fact  he  hadn't  a 
notion  as  to  how  he  was  going  to  make  good.  He 
had  no  more  idea  than  Bartlett  as  to  the  nature  of 
the  story  that  was  to  startle  the  natives  in  thirty- 
six  hours,  but  he  was  the  original  cheery  optimist 
and  somehow  he  felt  that  the  gods  would  be  good  to 
him.  He  sauntered  leisurely  down  the  street  in 
quest  of  an  inspiration. 


The  walk  across  the  Common  after  the  perform- 
ance that  night  wasn't  quite  as  stimulating  as  it 
generally  was.  Jimmy's  earlier  saunter  had  failed 
to  result  in  the  production  of  an  idea  that  was  even 
remotely  possible  of  materialization  and  he  had 
slowly  let  himself  drop  into  one  of  those  states  of 
moody  pre-occupation  which  are  usually  fatal  to 
romance.  Lolita,  too,  was  strangely  silent  and  de- 
tached and  their  conversation  at  first  was  mono- 
syllabic and  intermittent.  Presently  they  came  to  a 
bench  on  the  fringes  of  the  park  and  sat  down  un- 
der the  sheltering  branches  of  a  great  elm,  as  they 
had  for  several  nights  past.  Neither  spoke  for  a 
minute  or  two.  Jimmy  was  the  first  to  find  voice. 

"I  might  have  'em  organize  a  literary  society  and 
have  one  of  those  Harvard  ducks  come  over  some 
off  afternoon  and  slip  'em  a  lecture,"  he  said  ab- 
stractedly as  he  stared  straight  ahead. 

Lolita  eyed  him  curiously.  The  speech  was  so 
entirely  disassociated  from  his  hitherto  brief  re- 
— 179  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

marks  that  she  couldn't  fathom  its  significance. 

"Who?"  she  asked. 

"There  wouldn't  be  time  for  that,  though."  He 
went  on  unheedingly.  "He'd  probably  have  to  take 
a  couple  of  days  to  decide  and  another  couple  to  get 
his  nerve  up." 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Jimmy  Martin?" 
broke  in  Lolita  impatiently. 

Jimmy  came  to  with  a  start  and  laughed 
foolishly. 

"Excuse  me,  girlie,"  he  replied.  "I  forgot  that 
you  didn't  know  anything  about  it.  You  see  I  ain't 
really  here  on  this  bench  at  all.  I'm  right  out  on  a 
sand-bar  and  the  tide's  comin'  in.  I'm  goin'  to  be 
all  awash  in  a  little  while  if  the  life  guards  don't 
come  out  and  pull  a  rescue." 

"I  don't  understand,"  persisted  Lolita. 

"It's  easy,  girlie.  I've  got  a  case  of  goods  to  de- 
liver and  the  drivers  are  out  on  strike.  In  words  of 
one  syllable,  sweetheart,  I've  promised  Bartlett  that 
I'm  goin'  to  back  the  peace  pow-wow  off  on  to  the 
inside  pages  on  Monday  morning  and  I've  been 
reachin'  out  all  night  for  ideas,  but  I  don't  seem 
to  get  anywhere  at  all,  not  anywhere  at  all." 

"Is  it  something  about  some  old  story  for  the 
papers  or  something  like  that  that's  worrying  you?" 

Jimmy  felt  impelled  to  make  a  snappy  rejoinder, 
but  his  saner  judgment  prevailed.  He  checked  him- 
self just  in  time. 

"That's  the  general  idea,  girlie,"  he  said  evenly 
and  lapsed  into  ruminative  silence  again. 
—  180  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

It  was  dark  under  the  old  elm  and  Jimmy  couldn't 
see  Lolita's  face.  Had  he  been  able  to  he  would 
have  noted  an  expression  on  it  that  might  possibly 
have  given  him  concern.  It  was  an  expression  that 
was  a  blend  of  petulance  and  of  something  wan 
and  a  bit  forlorn,  a  mixture  of  irritation  and  of 
anguish  that  seemed  perilously  near  the  breaking 
point.  When  she  spoke  again  her  voice  was  tremu- 
lous and  low. 

"Stories,  stories,  stories," — she  paused  with  every 
repetition  of  the  word — "that's  all  you  think  about. 
What  good  do  they  do?  What's  the  use  of  them 
all?  They  don't  make  anybody  happier,  do  they? 
They  don't  mean  anything,  do  they  They  really 
don't,  do  they?" 

Jimmy  slipped  out  of  the  silences  Instantly  and 
edged  closer  to  Lolita.  He  tried  to  take  her  hand, 
but  she  drew  it  away  quickly.  He  was  bewildered 
by  her  attitude  and  there  was  a  shade  of  genuine 
agitation  in  his  voice  as  he  made  reply. 

"What's  the  matter,  honey?  Didn't  you  like  that 
little  yarn  and  the  two  column  picture  of  you  the 
Journal  ran  the  other  morning?  That  sheet's  got 
a  circulation  of  over  four  hundred  thousand.  Think 
of  all  those  people  readin'  about  you  and  seein'  your 
picture  and  talkin'  about  you.  Didn't  that  make  you 
happy?  I  hoped  it  would.  That's  what  I  got  'em 
to  use  it  for." 

Lolita  touched  him  gently  on  the  arm. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  nasty,  Jimmy,"  she  said.  "I 
—  181  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

really  didn't  and  I  hate  to  tell  you  the  truth,  but 
you'd  really  ought  to  know  it.  Do  you  want  to?" 

"Fire  ahead.  You  don't  even  have  to  blindfold 
me." 

"It  didn't  make  me  as  happy  as  you'd  imagine. 
There  wasn't  a  single  soul  that  saw  it  who  knew 
anything  about  who  I  was  or  anything  except  the 
folks  in  the  company,  and  they  were  all  jealous 
because  you'd  put  it  in.  I  didn't  mean  any  more  to 
that  four  hundred  thousand  than  the  printer  that 
set  up  the  type.  Oh,  no,  I  didn't.  You  can't  tell 
me." 

"Let  me  tell  you  something,  Jimmy.  Old  Doc 
Crandall,  the  city  editor  of  the  Cedar  Rapids  Demo- 
crat-Chronicle, wrote  a  piece  once  about  the  grad- 
uation exercises  at  the  Central  High  School  and  he 
said  that  I  recited  with  'fine  expression  and  wonder- 
ful emotional  control.'  There  were  only  two  lines 
about  me,  but  those  two  lines  made  me  happier  than 
a  whole  page  in  Boston  would, — yes,  or  New  York 
either.  Do  you  know  why?" 

Jimmy,  whose  ideals  were  crashing  down  to 
earth,  sa?  entranced  at  Lolita's  turbulent  outburst. 

"No,"  he  replied.    "What's  the  answer?" 

"Because  nine  out  of  every  ten  people  that  read 
those  two  lines  either  know  me  to  speak  to  or  by 
sight  or  knew  mother  or  dad  and  what  was  printed 
meant  something  to  them  about  someone  who 
meant  something  to  them.  That's  kind  of  mixed 
up,  I  guess,  but  you  know  what  I'm  trying  to  say. 
What  do  I  mean  to  anyone  here  or  in  New  York 
— 182  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

or  any  place  else  here  in  the  east  ?    Nothing — noth- 
ing at  all,  Jimmy — just  nothing  at  all." 

She  wound  up  at  a  helter-skelter  pace  that  left 
her  quite  out  of  breath  and  had  it  not  been  for  the 
sheltering  elm  Jimmy  might  have  noticed  that  she 
was  biting  her  lip  when  she  paused  and  that  she 
was  holding  herself  in  with  a  mighty  effort.  He 
again  tried  to  take  her  hand,  but  she  would  have 
none  of  it. 

"Girlie,"  he  pleaded,  making  a  clumsy  attempt 
at  gentleness,  "you  mean  a  whole  lot  to  a  certain 
party  who's  pretty  close  at  hand.  You've  just  nat- 
urally got  the  Cedar  Rapids  blues  again  tonight, 
honey,  but  you'll  be  all  right  in  the  mornin',  all 
right  in  the  mornin',  honey.  Take  it  from  me.  I 
don't  lose  many  bets." 

But  Lolita  had  lapsed  into  silence  again  and 
didn't  reply.  Presently  she  complained  of  being 
chilly,  got  up  wearily  and  begged  to  be  taken  home. 
At  the  door  of  her  hotel  Jimmy  made  one  last 
effort  to  lift  her  out  of  her  mood. 

"Paper  says  fair  and  warmer  tomorrow,  honey," 
he  said.  "Maybe  we  can  hire  a  liitle  old  gas  wagon 
and  get  out  among  the  golden  rod  and  the  daisies,  if 
I  ain't  too  busy.  Would  you  go?" 

"Maybe,"  replied  Lolita  listlessly.    "Good  night." 

And  she  was  gone.  Jimmy  gazed  after  her  des- 
pairingly. Gloom  entered  his  soul  and  made  prepa- 
rations to  settle  down  for  the  night. 

A  strident  voiced  newsboy  turned  the  corner  just 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

then  shrilly  crying  the  early  or  "bull-dog"  edition 
of  one  of  the  Sunday  papers. 

"Hi,  Journal,"  he  called,  "Sunday  Morning  Jour- 
nal— full  account  of  "Billy"  Williams'  sermon  on 
booze  and  tobacco — hi,  Journal — all  about  "Billy" 
Williams'  campaign — full  account  of  both  meetings 
— box  score  world's  champion  games — hi,  Journal." 

Jimmy  mechanically  bought  a  paper.  A  scream- 
ing headline  caught  his  glance: 

"BILLY"  WILLIAMS 
HITS  BOOZE 
AND  TOBACCO 


Famous  Evangelist  Ends  Second 
Week  of  Campaign  With  Bitter 
Onslauht  on  "Poison  Slingers 
and  Hell  Hounds." 


357  CONVERTS  HIT 

THE  SAWDUST  TRAIL 


Only  that  and  nothing  more  did  Jimmy  read.  The 
strained  look  slowly  left  his  face  and  was  replaced 
by  an  expression  indicative  of  profound  satisfaction. 
Even  Lolita  was  forgotten  for  the  nonce.  The  Big 
Idea  had  just  loomed  up  in  the  offing  and  was  head- 
ing straight  for  port. 

—  184  — 


Chapter  Twenty-Three 

The  Rev.  "Billy"  Williams  at  that  particular  mo- 
ment occupied  the  center  of  the  stage  in  Boston, 
and  there  was  no  immediate  prospect  of  anyone 
else  usurping  that  place  inasmuch  as  his  local  en- 
gagement had  six  weeks  more  to  run.  He  was  a 
sensational  evangelist  whose  campaigns  on  behalf 
of  old-fashioned  religion  and  of  old-fashioned 
morals  had  stirred  up  the  profoundest  depths  of 
human  feeling  in  dozens  of  communities  in  all  parts 
of  the  country  and  had  brought  tens  of  thousands 
of  men  and  women  in  all  stations  of  life  to  an  emo- 
tional crisis  in  which  they  pledged  themselves  anew 
or  for  the  first  time  to  a  faithful  adherence  to  the 
fundamental  tenets  of  Christianity. 

His  methods  were  so  bizarre  and  so  baroque  and 
he  was  such  a  past-master  of  the  art  of  publicity 
that  he  always  afforded  first-page  "copy"  when- 
ever he  arrived  in  a  city.  His  meetings  were  held  in 
great  specially  constructed  tabernacles  seating  ten 
thousand  or  more  persons  and  were  conducted  with 
a  splendid  sense  of  dramatic  values  for  he  was  a 
keen  psychologist  and  he  knew  the  things  best  cal- 
culated to  move  and  sway  great  groups  of  people. 
The  judicious  and  the  ultra-dignified  who  came  to 
grieve  or  to  sneer  were  usually  carried  away  in  a 
tumult  of  emotional  excitement  and  were  literally 
swept  off  their  feet  by  the  cumulative  appeal  of  all 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

his  cunningly  devised  plans  to  "get  to  their  innards," 
as  "Billy"  himself  was  wont  to  phrase  it  in  his  own 
inelegant,  but  singularly  effective  style. 

Not  even  Jimmy  Martin  himself  had  such  a  vo- 
cabulary of  arresting  and  original  slang  as  "Billy" 
Williams.  His  sermons  reeked  with  it  when  he 
felt  that  the  occasion  warranted  its  use  and  even 
the  most  conservative  of  clergymen  who  at  first 
frowned  at  such  language  in  the  pulpit  were  event- 
ually obliged  to  admit  that  it  had  its  place  in  a 
white-hot  appeal  made  to  a  vast  miscellaneous  au- 
dience seated  in  an  auditorium  as  long  as  a  city 
block,  an  audience  which  would  unquestionably  re- 
main unmoved  if  preached  to  in  the  chaste  and 
austere  phrases  of  the  conventional  pulpit  orator. 
The  downright  sincerity  of  the  man  and  the  com- 
pelling force  of  his  powerful  personality  turned 
scoffers  into  ardent  followers  and  made  him  indeed 
a  mighty  power  in  any  city  which  he  honored  with 
a  visit. 

Early  on  the  Sunday  evening  following  the  events 
hitherto  chronicled  a  great  crowd  surged  about  the 
entrances  to  the  huge  wooden  auditorium  which 
sprawled  over  a  lot  in  the  environs  of  the  city.  It 
was  a  heterogeneous  crowd  not  dissimilar  in  its 
composition  to  the  other  crowds  which  flocked  in 
the  summer  to  the  great  white  tents  which  the 
circus  pitched  on  this  very  spot.  Most  of  those 
comprising  it  were  quiet  and  orderly — apparently 
a  little  self-conscious  of  the  necessity  for  decorum 
— but  there  were,  here  and  there,  a  group  of  noisy 
and  irrepressible  spirits,  all  of  them  young,  who 
— 186  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

seemed  to  regard  the  occasion  as  one  affording  un- 
equalled opportunities  for  a  lark.  The  doors  had 
not  yet  been  opened  for  the  evening  service  and 
the  throng  grew  to  enormous  proportions  with 
each  passing  minute. 

An  acute  observer  in  an  aeroplane  circling  over 
the  particular  group  which  awaited  entrance  on  the 
north  side  of  the  tabernacle  would  have  noticed  a 
little  cluster  of  femininity  in  the  front  ranks  which 
stood  out  vividly  from  the  rather  dull  and  neutral 
tone  of  the  rest  of  the  crowd  like  some  brilliant 
pattern  woven  into  a  field  of  grayish  tinge. 

There  were  rich  purples,  bright  reds  and  gay 
greens  in  this  little  oasis  of  color  and  from  it  there 
arose  light  laughter  and  frivolous  chatter,  the 
echoes  of  which  carried  to  the  shocked  ears  of 
those  more  serious  minded  persons  who  patiently 
waited  on  its  edges  for  the  onrush  which  always 
followed  the  opening  of  the  doors.  Jimmy  Martin 
stood  in  the  direct  center  of  the  oasis  in  his  capac- 
ity as  Personal  Custodian  of  the  Big  Idea  and  tried 
to  soothe  those  turbulent  spirits  among  the  mem- 
bers of  the  chorus  of  the  "Keep  Moving"  company 
who  were  beginning  to  chafe  at  the  delay. 

"Say,  young  fellow,"  drawled  a  svelte  creature 
whose  tawny  hair  glowed  like  an  aureole  as  the  last 
rays  from  the  setting  sun  caught  and  kindled  it,  "I 
haven't  stood  as  long  as  this  since  I  quit  cloak  and 
suit  modeling  to  decorate  the  drama.  Where  do 
you  get  this  stuff  anyway?  What  do  you  think  we 
are — a  troupe  of  trained  seals?" 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"That's  what  I  say,"  broke  in  a  young  person 
with  the  soft  eyes  of  a  Rubens'  seraph.  "I  called 
off  a  perfectly  good  dinner  date  with  a  dandy  little 
Harvard  rah-rah  just  because  Bartlett  made  a  per- 
sonal matter  out  of  this  thing  and  here  we  are 
standing  around  with  the  other  hicks  waiting  for 
the  side-show  to  begin  and  wasting  perfectly  good 
and  valuable  time.  Press  agents  always  did  get  my 
goat/; 

"Mine,  too,"  remarked  a  languid  houri  whose 
pallid  face  was  set  off  by  a  pair  of  enormous  green 
earrings.  "In  New  York  I  wouldn't  think  of  stand- 
Ing  in  line  for  a  chance  to  see  the  signing  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  with  the  original  cast, 
and  here  I  am  getting  corns  on  my  tootsies  waiting 
to  listen  to  a  fellow  that  anyone  can  hear  any  time 
for  nothing  at  all.  Really,  girls,  I  don't  think  any 
of  us  are  in  our  right  minds." 

"I  know  it's  a  nuisance,  ladies,"  said  Jimmy 
urbanely,  "but  when  you  see  the  smear  that  I  think 
we're  goin'  to  land  in  tomorrow's  papers  you'll  be 
thankful  that  you  stuck  along.  I  want  you  all  to 
sit  in  a  group  by  yourselves  and  don't  any  of  you 
try  to  be  too  shrinking.  I  want  the  newspaper 
bunch  to  find  you're  there  without  my  tellin'  'em. 
Then  it'll  look  as  if  your  bein'  there  is  more  on  the 
level  than  otherwise.  When  it  comes  to  the  singin' 
I  want  all  of  you,  please,  to  cut  in  for  all  it's  worth 
just  as  if  Bartlett  was  sittin'  down  in  front  at  a 
dress  rehearsal." 

"When  the  trail  hittin'  begins  just  sit  tight  and 
— 188  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

register  intense  interest  in  the  proceedings.  If  any 
of  you  laugh  it'll  spoil  the  whole  arrangment.  I 
was  at  one  of  these  meetin's  out  in  Denver  a  couple 
of  years  ago  and  when  those  folks  start  comin' 
down  the  aisles  believe  me  it  ain't  anything  to  get 
funny  about.  If  any  of  the  newspaper  crowd  get  to 
you  when  it's  all  over  I  want  whoever  does  any 
talkin'  to  say  that  you're  all  profoundly  impressed 
with  everything  and  all  that,  and  that  you're  all 
comin'  again  tomorrow  afternoon  and  whenever 
else  you  get  a  chance." 

Jimmy  didn't  heed  the  sarcastic  reception  with 
which  his  final  words  of  instruction  were  greeted. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  admiringly  for  the  moment  on 
Lolita  Murphy  who  stood  near  him  talking  earn- 
estly to  one  of  the  "ponies."  To  him  she  never 
looked  prettier  than  she  did  in  the  simple  little 
tailor-made  suit  and  the  trim  black  velvet  toque 
which  she  had  worn  on  the  automobile  ride  they 
had  taken  together  that  afternoon,  an  excursion 
which  seemed  to  have  wiped  out  all  traces  of  the 
"Cedar  Rapids  blues,"  and  which  had  left  her  smil- 
ing and  happy  again.  She  had  protested  a  little 
against  participating  in  the  staging  of  Jimmy's  Big 
Idea,  but  had  finally  yielded  to  his  persuasive  argu- 
ments and  here  she  was  now,  shining  and  radiant 
in  contrast  with  her  more  elaborately  attired  and 
highly  artificial  sisters. 

Just  then  a  murmur  swept  through  the  crowd; 
attendants  at  the  entrance  shouted  "easy,  please, 
everyone,"  and  Jimmy  and  his  group  of  more  or 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

less  merry  chorus  maidens  were  caught  in  a  whirl- 
ing current  of  humanity  which  shot  them  through 
the  door,  rumpled  and  almost  panic-stricken,  and 
landed  them  at  the  head  of  a  long  aisle  bisecting 
the  huge  empty  auditorium  which  yawned  before 
them,  ablaze  with  lights  and  festooned  with  flags. 
The  press  agent  was  the  first  to  collect  his  thoughts- 

"Everybody  make  a  dive  for  the  front  seats,"  he 
shouted.  "Follow  me." 

The  "Keep  Moving"  girls  couldn't  do  anything 
else.  The  surging  crowd  pressed  them  forward  and 
they  took  the  aisle  on  the  run  to  avoid  being 
knocked  down.  They  all  managed  to  get  seats  in 
the  front  rows  where  hand-mirrors,  powder  puffs 
and  lip  sticks  soon  came  into  play  to  the  horror 
and  stupefaction  of  many  in  the  great  choir  of  a 
thousand  which  occupied  places  on  the  platform  di- 
rectly in  front  of  them. 

Jimmy,  having  successfully  performed  his  func- 
tion as  counselor  and  cicerone,  was  careful  to  seat 
himself  a  considerable  distance  away  on  the  other 
side  of  the  aisle  where  he  effaced  himself  as  much 
as  possible  by  betraying  an  intense  interest  in  a 
hymn  book  which  was  proffered  him  by  an  usher. 
He  knew  that  it  wouldn't  do  for  him  to  be  seen  in 
close  proximity  to  his  charges  by  any  of  the  keen- 
eyed  reporters  who  were  even  now  gathering  at 
the  press  table  underneath  the  reading  desk  in  the 
center  of  the  platform. 

One  of  these  reporters,  a  curly-headed  youngster 
with  laughing  eyes,  turned  his  chair  around  to  get 


a  comprehensive  view  of  the  thousands  of  persons 
who  were  jostling  each  other  in  the  center  and  side 
aisles  as  the  vast  building  rapidly  filled  up.  He 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  numerous  facial  toilettes  in 
progress  in  the  front  rows,  ran  an  appraising  eye 
over  the  entire  group;  smothered  an  unchurchly 
chuckle  and  nudged  his  nearest  companion.  Pres- 
ently the  entire  press  table  was  abuzz  with  whis- 
pered comment  as  the  identity  of  the  visitors  was 
established. 

While  the  crowd  was  still  noisily  filing  into  the 
rear  rows  "Billy"  Williams'  principal  assistant  put 
in  an  appearance  on  the  platform  and  was  loudly 
applauded  by  scattered  groups  who  were  promptly 
quieted  by  the  ushers  who  moved  quickly  up  and 
down  the  aisles,  ready  at  a  moment's  notice,  to  in- 
sist upon  the  preservation  of  the  dignities.  The 
assistant  was  a  jovial  looking  man  with  an  infec- 
tious smile.  He  held  a  cornet  in  one  hand  and  he 
raised  the  other  to  command  the  attention  of  the 
great  throng.  A  hush  fell  over  the  assemblage  and 
presently  the  strains  of  "Onward,  Christian  Sol- 
diers" cut  through  the  silence  with  penetrating  in- 
cisiveness.  The  effect  was  electric.  When  the  cor- 
netist  had  finished  he  turned  swiftly  and  at  precisely 
the  same  instant  the  thousand  singers  on  the  plat- 
form rose  to  their  feet  and  burst  into  song.  An- 
other signal  and  the  audience  stood  up.  In  response 
to  a  pleading  gesture  from  the  man  with  the  smile 
a  voice  was  raised  here  and  there  in  unison  with 
the  chorus.  He  pleaded  pantomimically  once  more 
— 191  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

and,  as  if  by  the  exercise  of  sheer  hypnotic  control, 
he  presently  cajoled  the  great  crowd  into  singing. 
From  that  moment  he  held  the  audience  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand  and  played  with  it.  Now  he 
would  have  everyone  on  one  side  of  the  auditorium 
singing.  Then  he  would  be  challenging  those  on 
the  other  side  to  outdo  their  competitors.  Now  it 
was  the  women  who  would  be  asked  to  sing  alone. 
Next  it  would  be  the  men.  The  choir  would  be 
asked  to  sing  a  verse.  Then  the  entire  audience 
would  be  called  upon  to  follow  them.  By  the  time 
he  had  finished  with  those  preliminaries  he  had  the 
throats  of  everyone  present  in  such  thorough  work- 
ing order  and  the  feeling  of  self-consciousness  had 
been  so  dissipated  that  when  he  eventually  de- 
manded "a  combined  effort  that  will  shake  the 
gates  of  glory"  the  result  was  inspiring  to  the  last 
degree. 

As  the  final  words  of  the  final  chorus  were 
shaken  out  by  ten  thousand  throats  in  one  last 
concentrated  burst  of  glad  song  the  Rev.  "Billy" 
Williams  stepped  through  a  door  on  the  side  of  the 
platform  and  quickly  crossed  to  the  reading  desk. 
No  playwright,  craftily  scheming  for  a  "good  en- 
trance" for  a  stage  star,  could  ever  have  contrived 
a  situation  or  a  moment  more  pregnant  with  dra- 
matic effectiveness  or  more  tense  with  emotion. 
The  last  word  of  the  hymn  had  died  down  and  the 
air  seemed  to  still  throb  with  the  dying  echoes  as 
the  evangelist  reached  to  the  center  of  the  platform 
and  held  up  his  hand  in  a  gesture  which  was  an 


Fresh   Every   Hour 

invitation  to  prayer.  Ten  thousand  heads  were 
bowed  in  humble  submission  to  his  implied  com- 
mand, and  in  a  voice  which  breathed  sincerity  and 
fine  feeling  he  offered  up  a  simple  supplication  be- 
seeching the  blessing  of  Divine  Providence  upon  all 
assembled  and  upon  himself,  an  unworthy  instru- 
ment of  a  higher  Power. 

He  was  a  stockily  built  man  with  a  rugged  and 
rather  rough-hewn  face.  Blue  eyes  were  set  in  it 
below  bushy  brows  that  gave  him,  in  moods  of  in- 
tense earnestness,  a  somewhat  ferocious  aspect. 
They  were  eyes  that  now  glowed  with  tender 
warmth,  that  grew  hard  or  relentlessly  cold  next 
moment  or  that  would  ever  and  anon  gleam  and 
glint  with  merriment.  They  were  the  most  expres- 
sive of  his  features.  They  mirrored  his  moods  with 
uncanny  accuracy.  The  movements  of  his  squat 
and  chunky  frame  were  quick  and  darting  when  he 
was  in  action  and  even  when  he  was  in  repose  — 
which  was  seldom  —  he  seemed  to  be  literally  seeth- 
ing with  energy  beneath  the  surface.  When  he  per- 
mitted himself  the  luxury  of  letting  down  the  in- 
hibitive  barriers  which  ordinarily  held  this  energy 
in  check  he  became  a  dynamic  force  that  was  al- 
most irresistible  in  its  onslaught  on  the  emotions. 

The  prayer  over,  another  hymn  was  sung  under 
the  magnetic  leadership  of  the  assistant,  while 
"Billy"  Williams  pulled  his  chair  over  the  edge  of 
the  platform  and  fraternized  with  the  reporters  as 
was  his  custom.  Jimmy  Martin,  who  was  watching 
the  proceedings  circumspectly  over  the  shoulder  of 
—  jpj  — 


Fresh   Every   Hour 

a  prim  looking  maiden  lady  who  stood  next  him 
and  whose  hymn  book  he  was  sharing  in  a  pretense 
of  devotional  interest,  noticed  that  the  curly  headed 
newsgatherer  was  whispering  to  the  evangelist  and 
directing  the  latter's  attention  to  his  charges  in  the 
front  rows. 

He  saw  "Billy"  Williams  look  interestedly  at  the 
young  women  and  then  smile.  It  was  such  a 
healthy,  wholesome,  frank  smile  that  it  was  in- 
stantly returned  by  the  "Keep  Moving"  girls  and 
Jimmy  found  himself  taking  note  of  the  fact  that 
even  the  most  utterly  blase  members  of  the  group 
seemed  to  drop  their  affected  air  of  supreme  world- 
weariness  for  a  moment  and  become  human  once 
more.  He  noticed  the  evangelist  turn  away  from 
the  press  table  as  the  final  chorus  of  the  hymn  was 
sung  by  everyone  in  the  auditorium  and  look  up 
towards  the  flag-bedecked  rafters  for  a  half  minute 
or  so  as  if  pondering  on  an  idea  that  had  occurred 
to  him.  As  the  great  audience  seated  itself  he 
sprang  to  his  feet  with  an  air  of  decision. 

"My  friends,"  he  announced  in  a  voice  which 
swept  to  the  farthest  corners  of  the  vast  building, 
"I  have  an  announcement  to  make  that  may  dis- 
appoint some  of  you.  I  regret  this  but  my  duty 
is  as  clear  to  me  as  the  unclouded  noon-day  sky.  A 
Divine  opportunity  for  service  presents  itself  to  me 
tonight  and  I  would  be  recreant  to  my  ideals  if  I 
did  not  embrace  it.  I  had  intended  to  preach  to 
you  on  some  of  the  lessons  which  I  draw  from  the 
disgusting  exhibition  of  prize-fighting  which  was 


'Fresh  Every  Hour 

tolerated  in  this  city  during  the  past  week  and  I 
had  announced  that  I  would  tan  the  hides  of  some 
of  the  city  officials  responsible  for  its  sanction,  and 
that  I  would  nail  those  hides  on  the  door  of  the 
house  wherein  abideth  decency  and  honor. 

"I  have  changed  my  plan,  my  friends,  not  be- 
cause of  any  fear  of  the  skulking  swine  whom  I 
had  intended  to  attack.  Their  turn  on  the  griddle 
will  come  tomorrow  night.  Instead  of  preaching  on 
that  theme  I  have  decided  to  devote  this  evening's 
discourse  to  an  attack  upon  the  pernicious  evils  of 
the  modern  theatre, — that  hell-hole,  that  cesspool, 
that  slimy  sink  of  iniquity  and  despair.  Bear  with 
me,  my  friends,  for  tonight  I  may  be  the  humble 
medium  by  means  of  which  the  truth  may  be 
brought  not  only  into  your  own  lives,  but  into  the 
lives  and  into  the  hearts  of  those  more  directly 
connected  with  this  unholy  institution  for  the  de- 
gradation of  mankind." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  while  a  whispered  buzz 
of  comment  spread  through  the  auditorium.  Jimmy 
Martin,  who  had  sat  fascinated  throughout  these  in- 
troductory remarks  and  who  could  hardly  credit 
the  validity  of  his  own  auditory  sensations,  darted 
an  apprehensive  glance  at  the  chorus  girls.  A  few 
were  registering  haughty  and  contemptuous  disdain 
and  were  sniffing  the  circumambient  air.  The  ma- 
jority, however,  seemed  gifted  with  a  saving  sense 
of  humor  and  were  smiling  good-naturedly.  Jimmy 
sighed  with  relief.  It  was  pleasant  to  think  that 
the  Rev.  "Billy"  Williams  was  unconsciously  play- 


ing  into  his  hand  so  successfully  that  the  story 
which  was  now  certain  to  develop  would  take  on 
an  added  value  and  would  unquestionably  be  fea- 
tured in  the  headlines. 

There  was  another  hymn  and  then  the  evangelist 
plunged  into  the  body  of  his  discourse.  It  was  a 
sermon  that  he  had  already  delivered  with  sensa- 
tional success  in  no  less  than  twenty-three  states. 
It  was  a  fine  example  of  unrestrained  denunciatory 
oratory  and  it  ranked  with  his  other  internationally 
famous  sermons  such  as  "Dancing — the  Devil's  De- 
vice for  Drugging  Decency";  or,  "Modern  Women's 
Attire — Satan's  Trap  for  the  Unwary  Male."  He 
traced  the  history  of  the  drama  from  the  flourish- 
ing days  of  its  great  popularity  in  ancient  Greece 
down  through  twenty-five  centuries  to  the  present 
day  and  on  the  way  he  stopped  to  excoriate  a  long 
line  of  playwrights  from  Aristophanes  to  the  writer 
of  a  salacious  bed-room  farce  then  current  in  Bos- 
ton. He  denounced  the  comedies  of  Terence  at 
which  ancient  Rome  laughed;  the  immoral  plays 
which  had  their  day  during  the  Restoration  in  Eng- 
land and  the  modern  American  musical  comedy  with 
equal  vehemance  and  with  that  complete  absence 
of  a  sense  of  proportion  which  always  characterizes 
the  propagandist  and  the  special  pleader. 

He  admitted,  and  rather  gloried  in  the  admis- 
sion, that  he  had  not  been  in  a  theatre  in  twenty- 
five  years  and  declared  that  he  would  sooner  be 
struck  dead  than  ever  cross  the  threshold  of  one 
again.  On  top  of  this  assertion  he  declared  with 
—  /p<5  — 


'Fresh  Every  Hour 

convincing1  sincerity,  that  "I  know  wherof  I  speak 
when  I  say  to  you  that  never  before  in  the  history 
of  the  civilized  world  has  the  theatre  quite  so  flag- 
rantly flaunted  its  indecencies  in  the  face  of  an  out- 
raged public  as  at  the  present  time."  He  attacked 
the  defenseless  moving  picture  and  consigned  it 
and  its  progenitors  and  abettors  to  the  exterior 
darkness. 

Then  he  grew  sentimental  and  his  voice,  which 
had  been  pitched  in  a  high  key,  became  touched 
with  something  soft  and  tender.  He  gave  his  idea 
of  what  he  felt  to  be  the  blasting  and  devastating 
effect  of  the  world  of  the  theatre  upon  a  girl  who 
might  had  known  the  restraining  influences  of  a 
simple  home  in  her  childhood  and  he  presented  a 
picture  of  the  sordid  contacts  she  would  be  forced 
to  make  in  seeking  a  career  upon  the  stage.  Jimmy 
winced  at  the  unreality  of  this  picture ;  its  unfair- 
ness and  its  gross  exaggeration,  but  there  was  no 
doubting  that  the  speaker  himself  believed  it  to  be 
gospel  truth  and  that  he  presented  it  with  such  con- 
vincing sincerity  that  the  vast  majority  of  those 
present  were  all  aquiver  with  moral  indignation  at 
the  charges  he  made.  He  let  his  voice  drop  to  a 
lower  tone,  and  there  was  the  vibrant  tremor  of  a 
deeply-felt  emotion  in  it  as  he  spoke,  crouching 
over  the  reading  desk  and  bending  his  head  forward 
in  an  attitude  of  eager  expectancy. 

"Mayhap  there  is  such  a  girl  here  tonight,  drawn 
hither  by  the  elusive  whisperings  of  a  conscience 
which  was  developed  at  the  knee  of  a  saintly  mother 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

and  under  the  fond  paternal  care  of  a  loving  father. 
Perchance  she  comes,  like  so  many  of  these  poor 
butterflies  of  the  stage,  from  a  home  in  a  small 
town  untouched  by  the  tinsel  glitter  and  the  tawdry 
allurements  of  the  pleasure-ridden  metropolis.  Per- 
haps she  was  caught  defenseless  in  a  moment  of 
passionate  revolt  against  what  she,  poor  foolish 
thing,  felt  to  be  the  cramping  restrictions  of  her 
environment,  and  perhaps  she  was  swept  off  her 
feet  into  the  current  that  leads  swift  and  ever 
swifter  to  destruction. 

"Perhaps  she  said  good-bye  to  the  peaceful  little 
town,  to  the  heart-broken  mother  and  to  the  tender, 
patient  father  who  was  trying  so  hard  to  stay  the 
flood  of  tears  surging  in  his  kindly  eyes ;  perhaps 
she  went  to  the  big  city  and  courted  the  muse  of 
tragedy  or  of  comedy  and  found,  for  a  time,  a 
specious  joy  in  the  glare  and  brilliance  of  the  foot- 
lights. Perhaps  there  came  to  her  a  measure  of 
success  in  the  new  realm  of  pleasure  and  mayhap 
she  was  carried  out  of  herself,  out  of  her  real  self, 
into  a  lotus  land  of  dazzling  splendor." 

His  voice  grew  more  tremulous  now.  He  leaned 
forward  and  seemed  to  be  speaking  directly  to  the 
little  group  of  girls  in  the  front  rows.  Jimmy 
noticed  that  they  were  the  focus  point  of  observa- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  reporters. 

"If  there  are  any  such  girls  here  tonight,"  pleaded 
the  evangelist,  "let  me  hold  out  to  them  the  helping 
hand  of  service.  Let  me  beg  them,  with  all  the  sin- 
cerity of  my  nature,  to  give  heed  to  the  warning  I 
— 198  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

have  sounded.  Let  me  ask  them  to  picture  the  little 
home  back  yonder  with  the  empty  chair  that's  al- 
ways waiting  for  the  daughter  who  has  gone  out  to 
beat  her  fragile  wings  against  the  candle's  flame. 
Let  them  picture  again  the  little  mother  with  the 
toft,  grey  eyes.  They  were  so  bright  and  lively 
once,  but  now  there  is  an  anxious  look  in  them. 
There  is  sadness  in  her  heart,  too,  a  heavy  sadness, 
but  she  tries  to  be  brave  for  the  sake  of  him  who 
sits  so  gloomily  by  the  fire-place  and  aches  for  the 
touch  of  a  vanished  hand  and  the  sound  of  a  voice 
that  is  gone. 

"Let  me  entreat  you  to  bring  the  roses  back  to 
mother's  pale  cheeks  again  if  there  are  any  of  you 
here.  Let  me  plead  with  you,  out  of  a  full  heart, 
to  bring  the  laughter  back  to  father's  lips  and  the 
smile  back  to  his  care-worn  face.  Let  me  urge  you 
to  fly  from  the  stifling  air  of  the  playhouse  back 
to  the  clean,  open  spaces  where  the  fair  winds 
blow,  where  love  and  tender  solicitude  await  you 
and  where  life  is  real  and  earnest  and  not  an  empty, 
foolish  dream.  We  will  pray  for  guidance  and  when 
we  have  finished  I  will  ask  all  those  who  wish  to 
be  consecrated  anew  to  come  down  the  aisles  and 
clasp  my  hand  in  a  pledge  of  fealty  to  the  service 
of  Him  whom  they  have  forgotten  for  a  while  in 
the  fretful  rush  of  selfish  living.  Let  us  pray." 

Down  on  his  knees  went  the  Rev.  "Billy"  Wil- 
liams and  as  thousands  in  the  great  audience  bowed 
their  heads  once  more  he  prayed  fervently  that 
everyone  present  who  was  unworthy  at  heart  might 

— 199  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

see  the  light  and  embrace  again  with  the  simple 
faith  of  childhood  the  eternal  truths  of  religion. 
The  "Keep  Moving"  girls  bowed  their  heads  with 
the  others,  and  if  Jimmy  had  been  a  little  closer 
he  might  have  noticed  that  here  and  there  a  rouged 
face  was  stained  with  tears  and  that  hard  lines 
around  the  mouths  of  one  or  two  of  the  bolder 
spirits  had  been  softened  as  if  by  some  subtle 
alchemy  beyond  the  ken  of  mortal  mind. 

The  prayer  over,  the  evangelist  sprang  to  his 
feet  'and  raised  his  hand.  The  great  choir,  in  in- 
stant response  to  his  signal,  began  to  softly  sing, 
"Lead,  Kindly  Light."  At  a  perfectly  timed  mo- 
ment toward  the  end  of  this  most  exquisite  of 
hymns  his  voice  sounded  above  the  pianissimo 
phrasing  of  the  massed  singers  and  carried,  with 
penetrating  clarity,  to  the  far  end  of  the  hushed 
auditorium. 

"Won't  someone  make  the  break  with  the  past," 
he  exorted.  "Won't  someone  be  the  first  to  lead 
the  strayed  sheep  into  the  vineyard  of  the  Lord?" 

A  tall,  thin  man  with  scraggly  white  hair  and  a 
pale  ascetic  face  stood  up  about  fifteen  rows  back 
from  the  platform  and  slid  out  into  the  nearest 
aisle.  He  bent  his  head  as  if  breasting  a  heavy 
wind  and  his  cheeks  suddenly  flamed  at  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  thousands  of  eyes  which  were 
turned  on  him  as  he  slouched  awkwardly  down 
toward  "Billy"  Williams,  who  had  stepped  from  the 
platform  and  who  was  now  standing  at  the  end 
of  the  aisle.  The  evangelist  reached  out  his  hand 
—  200  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

and  the  tall  man  grasped  it  as  he  made  a  quick  dive 
for  a  handkerchief  and  dabbed  at  his  faTe.  He 
mumbled  something  under  his  breath. 

"Don't  be  ashamed  to  cry,  brother,"  said  the  evan 
gelist,  putting  his  arm  affectionately  around  the 
other's  shoulder.  "Tears  at  a  time  like  this  are 
drops  of  God's  dew  that  will  wash  your  soul  as 
clean  as  morning  roses."  And  then  he  addressed 
the  audience  as  the  last  notes  of  the  hymn  were 
sung  by  the  choir.  "Who'll  join  our  brother  at  the 
mercy  seat,"  he  shouted.  "Who'll  be  the  next  to 
heed  the  glad  tidings?" 

There  was  a  movement  and  a  scraping  of  feet  in 
every  section  of  the  building  and  presently  men  and 
women  of  all  ages  and  all  conditions  began  coming 
down  the  aisle  to  be  greeted  by  "Bitty"  Williams 
and  shunted  aside  into  the  open  space  designed  for 
the  reception  of  converts.  There  they  stood,  most 
of  them  with  drooped  heads  and  many  of  them 
crying.  There  were  a  few  who  held  their  heads  up 
and  their  shoulders  back  and  who  stood  four-square 
to  all  the  curious  glances  directed  toward  them.  On 
their  faces  were  brave  smiles  and  there  was  about 
them  the  air  of  spiritual  elation  that  was  inspiring 
to  those  who  noted  it. 

Jimmy  Martin's  emotions  had  been  subjected  to 
a  severe  grilling  during  the  concluding  portion  of 
the  preacher's  sentimental  appeal  and  he  had  lost 
a  little  of  his  self-reserve  and  customary  complac- 
ency during  the  prayer.  When  the  first  of  the  con- 
verts came  struggling  down  the  aisle  and  had  be- 
—  201  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

gun  to  weep  a  little,  the  press  agent  found  himself, 
for  the  first  time  in  many  years,  struggling  to  hold 
back  the  tears  that  came  unbidden  into  his  own 
eyes.  When  the  others  had  followed  the  spell  was 
broken  and  he  looked  furtively  about  to  see  if  any- 
one had  noticed  that  he  had  been  trembling  on  the 
verge  of  weakness.  He  thought  once  more  of  the 
mission  which  had  brought  him  into  this  alien  atmo- 
sphere and  he  directed  his  attention  to  the  benches 
occupied  by  the  young  women  for  whom  he  was 
acting  as  a  somewhat  remote  escort. 

The  converts  were  coming  down  the  aisles  now  in 
little  groups  of  three  and  four  and  the  evangelist 
was  keeping  things  at  fever  heat  with  loudly  voiced 
exortations.  He  leaned  toward  the  "Keep  Moving" 
girls  and  made  a  personal  plea  to  them. 

"Isn't  there  someone  here  in  this  group  of  girls 
who  has  seen  the  light  tonight,"  he  inquired.  "Won't 
someone  among  you  step  out  here  and  take  my 
hand  and  get  right  with  her  soul  again?" 

"I'll  say  I  will,"  Jimmy  heard  Natalie  Nugent, 
the  girl  with  the  pallor  and  the  green  earings,  say 
as  she  stood  up  and  walked  toward  "Billy"  Wil- 
lims  who  gripped  her  outstretched  hand  and  di- 
rected her  to  a  position  alongside  him.  The  press 
agent  looked  at  the  other  girls  and  noticed  that 
they  were  watching  her  with  fascinated  interest. 
Somehow  he  couldn't  quite  grasp  what  it  all  meant. 

"God  bless  you,  sister,"  the  evangelist  shouted. 
"Won't  some  of  your  friends  join  you?"  He 
plunged  again  into  the  vernacular,  choosing,  as  al- 
—  202  — 


ways,  the  effective  moment.  "It's  your  cue,  girls," 
he  pleaded.  "The  curtain's  up  and  the  call  boy  is 
knocking  at  the  door  of  your  hearts.  Don't  delay. 
You  can't  tell  what  moment  the  Great  Stage  Man- 
ager will  ring  down  for  the  last  time.  It  may  be 
tonight.  It  may  be  tomorrow.  Don't  be  caught  un- 
prepared. It's  a  blessed  opportunity,  girls.  Don't 
pass  it  up.  For  mother's  sake,  girls,  for  mother's 
sake." 

Three  other  girls  got  up  now  and  came  forward. 
Jimmy  gave  an  audible  gasp  of  amazement.  A  fifth 
and  a  sixth  moved  into  place  beside  the  others  and 
then  Lolita  Murphy  stood  up,  hesitated  for  just  a 
moment,  caught  "Billy"  Williams'  warm  human 
smile  and  stepped  briskly  forward.  A  half  dozen 
others  followed.  The  remainder  sat  with  bowed 
heads.  Those  who  had  left  their  places  stood  in  a 
little  circle  by  themselves,  clustered  directly  about 
the  beaming  evangelist.  He  made  a  last  plea  for 
converts  to  the  vast  audience  and  a  stray  dozen  or 
more  men  and  women,  whose  moral  courage  had 
not  been  quite  strong  enough  to  force  a  decision 
at  the  beginning,  bobbed  up  here  and  there  and 
moved  toward  the  platform.  There  was  a  momen- 
tary pause  and  then  the  preacher  spoke  again. 

"My  friends,"  he  said,  "a  most  remarkable  event 
has  occurred  here  tonight.  Perhaps  some  of  you 
here  near  the  front  have  surmised  what  it  is,  but 
I  am  sure  that  the  great  majority  of  you  have  not 
grasped  its  significance.  My  efforts  tonight  have 
been  blessed  by  an  achievement  of  which  I  am  ex- 
—  203  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

tremely  proud.  Thirteen  members  of  a  theatrical 
company  now  appearing  in  this  city — a  company 
presenting  a  conglomeration  bearing  the  idiotic  title 
of  'Keep  Moving' — thirteen  lovely  young  women 
have  been  rescued  from  the  insidious  temptations 
that  lurk  behind  the  blinding  glare  of  the  footlights 
and  have  come  out  here  in  the  open  and  made  a 
pledge  to  get  back  into  the  old,  simple  ways  of  liv- 
ing. It's  the  most  wonderful  thing  that  has  hap- 
pened since  I  began  my  campaign,  and  while  these 
brave  and  earnest  souls  are  here  with  us  let  us  all 
join  in  a  prayer  that  they  may  be  steadfast  in  their 
new  aim  and  that  their  example  may  be  a  shining 
one  to  thousands  of  others  in  this  great  city.  Let 
us  pray." 

When  the  great  throng  arose  after  the  prayer  to 
sing  the  final  hymn  Jimmy  Martin  edged  out  of  his 
seat  and  slipped  unobtrusively  up  one  of  the  aisles 
and  out  into  the  chill  evening  air.  He  was  dazed 
and  bewildered,  but  he  had  presence  of  mind  enough 
to  hail  a  taxicab  and  direct  the  chauffeur  to  drive 
him  to  his  hotel.  He  had  an  idea  that  pictures  of 
the  fair  converts  would  be  in  demand  and  he  wanted 
to  be  on  hand  when  the  bright  young  gentlemen  of 
the  press  put  in  an  appearance. 


204  — 


Chapter  Twenty-Four 

Chester  Bartlett  was  not  given  to  enthusiasm,  but 
he  felt  impelled  to  congratulate  Jimmy  after  glanc- 
ing over  the  morning  papers  the  next  day  and 
making  a  mental  inventory  of  the  net  results  of  the 
press  agent's  Sunday  evening  "plant."  The  story 
leaped  out  of  the  front  page  of  every  journal  in 
town  and  dwarfed,  by  comparison,  the  accounts  of 
a  super-heated  debate  in  the  United  States  Senate 
on  disarmament,  of  a  great  strike  which  industrially 
paralyzed  Great  Britain  from  end  to  end  and  of  a 
volcanic  eruption  in  a  far-flung  island  of  the  Pacific 
which  claimed  8,000  human  lives  as  its  toll. 

The  "feature  writers"  who  covered  the  "Billy" 
Williams'  meetings  had  figuratively  and  literally 
turned  themselves  loose  on  the  proceedings  and  had 
written  stories  with  a  heart-throb  in  every  sentence 
and  a  tear  in  at  least  every  other  line.  They  had 
embellished  and  embroidered  the  actual  incidents  so 
effectively  that  even  Bartlett  himself,  case-hard- 
ened cynic  that  he  was,  found  himself  growing  a  bit 
sentimental  when  he  read  the  story  in  the  first 
paper  to  hand.  The  narratives  were  all  adorned 
with  photographs  of  the  "Keep-Moving"  beauties 
and  the  name  of  that  blithesome  musical  comedy 
figured  extensively  in  all  of  them.  Bartlett  particu- 
larly like  the  headline  in  the  Journal: 


Fresh  Every  Hour. 

CHORUS  BEAUTIES 
CONVERTED  BY 
"BILLY"  WILLIAMS 


Thirteen  "Keep  Moving"  Girls 
Hit  the  Trail  After  Eloquent 
Plea  by  Evangelist. 


TEN  THOUSAND  WEEP  AS 
SOLEMN  PLEDGE  IS  MADE 


"The  counter  attack  was  well  developed  and  the 
ground  gained  is  satisfactory  to  the  higher  com- 
mand," was  the  way  Bartlett  framed  his  congratu- 
lations over  the  telephone.  "You  can  consolidate 
your  present  position  and  rest  up  for  a  few  days." 

"All  right,"  Jimmy  replied  with  a  chuckle,  "but 
there's  no  tellin'  when  I  may  make  another  raid  on 
the  enemy  trenches.  I've  got  'em  goin'.  That  one 
was  as  easy  as  getting  a  drink  on  Broadway  since 
the  U.  S.  A.  went  dry." 

"In  plain,  everyday  English,"  went  on  Bartlett, 
"that's  just  about  the  best  plant  I've  seen  pulled 
off  in  the  twenty  years  that  I've  been  in  the  theat- 
rical business.  I  noticed  that  your  little  Cedar 
Rapids  friend  was  one  of  the  ring-leaders.  How 
you  managed  to  get  them  all  to  play  up  as  well  as 
—  206  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

they  did  is  what  I  can't  understand.  How  did  you 
work  it?" 

Jimmy  paused  for  a  moment  or  two  before  re- 
plying and  coughed  uneasily. 

"I've  got  'em  trained,"  he  finally  replied.  "They'll 
— they'll  do  anything  I  ask  'em  to  do — anything." 

It  was  characteristic  of  Jimmy  to  have  decided, 
after  considerable  speculation,  that  no  motive  other 
than  an  unselfish  desire  to  please  himself  and  to 
assist  in  adding  to  the  greater  glory  of  the  occasion 
had  prompted  Lolita  and  her  associates  to  profess 
conversion  on  the  night  before.  He  had  tried  to 
reach  her  on  the  telephone  several  times  with  the 
idea  of  thanking  her  for  her  unexpected  co-opera- 
tion in  furthering  the  success  of  his  publicity 
scheme,  but  had  been  always  met  with  the  response 
that  she  was  not  in.  He  finally  decided  to  defer 
the  expression  of  his  gratitude  until  that  evening  at 
the  theatre.  As  a  slight  token  of  his  good-will  and 
heart-felt  thankfulness  he  ordered  a  bouquet  of 
roses  delivered  to  her  dressing-room  and  he  per- 
sonally wrote  out  a  little  card  to  be  affixed  to  it. 

"To  the  best  little  press  agent  ever,"  it  ran,"  from 
a  cheap  piker  at  the  game — Yours  with  love — 
Jimmy." 

He  tried  to  preserve  a  slight  semblance  of  be- 
coming modesty  throughout  the  day,  but  the  con- 
gratulations which  poured  in  upon  him  from  all 
sides  were  of  such  a  fulsome  nature  and  coincided 
so  perfectly  with  his  own  opinion  of  himself  that 
when  evening  came  he  was  as  expansive  as  the  lead- 
—  207  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

ing  man  of  a  small  town  stock  company  and  just 
about  as  reticent  and  self-effacing  as  an  auctioneer. 
He  dined  alone  with  a  fine  inner  glow  of  self-satis- 
faction and  strolled  into  the  lobby  of  the  Colonial 
Theatre  about  half  an  hour  before  curtain  time  at 
peace  with  the  world. 

There  was  a  long  line  of  patrons  extending  from 
the  box-office  window  almost  out  to  the  sidewalk 
and  he  watched  the  scramble  for  tickets  with  a  feel- 
ing of  exalted  serenity.  The  sound  of  voices  at  the 
swinging  doors  leading  into  the  foyer  attracted  his 
attention.  He  turned  to  see  Bartlett  and  the  stage 
manager  coming  through.  Their  mood  was  one 
that  plainly  boded  developments  of  a  decidedly  dis- 
agreeable nature.  They  made  for  Jimmy  and 
pounced  upon  him  simultaneously. 

"Where's  that  girl  of  yours?"  inquired  Bartlett 
in  a  tone  that  Jimmy  felt  was  a  bit  menacing. 

"Yes,  and  where's  Natalie  Nugent  and  Hilda  Hen- 
nessey and  Trixie  Seville  and  Yvonne  Elaine  and 
Dulcie  Dolores  and  five  or  six  others,"  chimed  in 
the  stage  manager.  "What  do  you  know  about 
'em?" 

"What  do  I  know  about  'em?"  echoed  Jimmy 
helplessly.  "I  don't  know  anything  about  'em. 
What's  the  idea?" 

"The  idea  is  that  they  haven't  shown  up  tonight," 
said  Bartlett  tartly.  "Not  a  single  one  of  that  outfit 
that  put  your  story  over  last  night  has  put  in  an 
appearance  back  stage,  and  I  have  a  remote  sus- 
picion that  you  know  why  they  haven't.  Have  you 
—  208  — 


Fresh   Every   Hour 

got  some  new  stunt  up  your  sleeve?  If  you  have  I 
won't  stand  for  it.  Understand  me,  my  dear  sir, 
I  won't  stand  for  it." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it,  Mr.  Peters," 
said  Jimmy  with  an  air  of  injured  innocence,  "not 
a  single  little  thing.  I  haven't  seen  Lolita  all  day 
and  I  haven't  laid  eyes  on  any  of  those  other  queens 
either.  What  makes  you  think  I  know  anything 
about  it?" 

"Just  general  principles,  I  fancy.  You're  a  very 
smart  young  man  and  I  had,  and  still  have  for  that 
matter,  an  idea  that  you  may  be  planning  a  follow- 
up  of  some  sort  on  that  yarn  you  landed  this  morn- 
ing. Let  me  warn  you  that  if  you  are,  you  are 
monkeyin  with  the  well-known  buzz-saw.  Here  are 
a  dozen  or  more  of  the  best  looking  de  luxe  girls  in 
this  show  missing  and  the  house  practically  sold 
out.  I've  got  a  reputation  to  live  up  to  and  I  don't 
propose  to  have  it  suffer  just  for  a  fool  press  story." 

"But,  Mr.  Bartlett,"  broke  in  Jimmy. 

"Ifs  and  buts  are  superfluous  at  this  writing," 
interrupted  the  manager  angrily.  "It's  within 
fifteen  minutes  of  curtain  time,  and  we'll  have  to 
give  a  show  that'll  look  like  a  Number  Three  com- 
pany out  in  the  tall  grass.  The  next  time  you  plan 
a  press  story  you'll  have  to  get  it  passed  by  the 
censor  beforehand  and  I'm  going  to  be  the  censor. 
Do  you  get  me?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Jimmy  weakly  as  Bartlett  and 
the  stage  manager  disappeared  into  the  theatre 
again. 

—  209  — 


Fresh   Every   Hour 

He  leaned  against  the  wall  for  support  and  tried 
to  collect  his  thoughts.  Somehow  he  couldn't.  He 
felt  himself  in  the  clutch  of  uncertainties  beyond 
his  understanding  at  the  moment  and  vague  dis- 
tress was  written  large  upon  his  face.  One  of  the 
uniformed  carriage  attendants  tapped  him  on  the 
shoulder  and  slipped  a  letter  into  his  hand. 

"A  young  lady  left  this  half  an  hour  ago,  Mr. 
Martin,"  he  said,  "and  told  me  to  see  as  how  you 
got  it  handed  to  you  personally." 

Jimmy  knew  the  handwriting  on  the  envelope 
and  a  queer  feeling  came  over  him.  He  hesitated 
for  a  moment  before  reading  it.  When  Matthews, 
the  house  manager,  strolled  up  to  him  two  min- 
utes afterwards  vain  regret  was  in  his  heart  and  in 
his  eyes  there  lurked  a  look  of  blended  bewilder- 
ment and  futile  rage. 

"What's  the  matter,  old  man?"  inquired  Matthews. 
"Has  Bartlett  been  making  things  hard  for  you?" 

Jimmy  smiled  a  sickly  smile  and  handed  over  the 
letter. 

"I  don't  mind  so  much  what  he  says,"  he  replied, 
"but  this  has  got  under  the  little  old  cuticle  all 
right.  Read  it  if  you  like." 

The   manager    adjusted    his    gold-rimmed    glasses 
and  read  the   letter,   written   in  the  stiff,   vertical 
handwriting  of  a  school-girl. 
Dear  Jimmy: 

This   is   just  to   say  goodbye.     You've   been 
very  nice  and  very  kind  to  me  and   I'm  thank- 
ful   for  everything  and  all  that,  but  I've  just 
got  to  get  away  from  the  sinful  stage  and  go 
—  210  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

back  home.  The  other  girls  are  all  quitting, 
too.  I  knew  weeks  ago  that  it  was  foolish  to 
pretend  I'd  ever  be  anything  more  than  just  a 
fifth  or  sixth  rater  and  now  I'm  glad  that  I've 
been  brought  to  see  the  wickedness  of  it  all.  I 
guess  maybe  I've  got  the  "Cedar  Rapids  blues" 
you  spoke  about  the  other  night,  too.  Mother 
and  dad  have  been  writing  me  for  weeks  to 
come  home.  Thank  you  again  for  your  kind- 
ness and  all  that  and  don't  bother  trying  to 
look  me  up  for  I'm  taking  a  train  tonight. 
Many  thanks  again — from  your  little  friend, 

LOLJTA. 

"That's  mighty  tough,"  commented  Matthews 
sympathetically.  "Love  is  a  great  little  gamble." 

"You  said  something,"  replied  Jimmy  dejectedly. 
"I  held  the  right  cards,  but  I  overplayed  my  hand." 


—  21 1  — 


Chapter  Twenty-Five 

"They're  always  pickin'  on  me,"  moaned  Jimmy 
a  few  weeks  later  as  he  flung-  the  letter  he  had  just 
finished  reading  down  on  his  desk  in  a  corner  of  the 
dingy  office  of  the  Colonial  Theatre  and  kicked 
impulsively  at  a  crumpled  pile  of  discarded  news- 
papers on  the  floor. 

"What's  the  matter,  old  man?"  inquired  Mat- 
thews, looking  up  'from  a  stack  of  letters  on  his 
desk  and  regarding  the  press  agent  with  a  banter- 
ing smile.  "Is  Bartlett  out  on  the  rampage  again?" 

"No,"  replied  Jimmy  in  a  disgusted  tone  of  voice. 
"I  wish  he  was.  He's  postin'  three  sheets  tellin' 
what  a  grand  little  fellow  I  am.  That's  what  gets 
my  pet  Angora." 

"What's  the  catch?"  questioned  the  other. 

"Oh,  that's  concealed  in  the  last  paragraph.  He 
starts  out  with  a  lot  of  hot  air  about  how  good  I 
am  and  how  pleased  he  is  at  the  wonderful  showing 
I've  landed  over  here  in  Boston,  and  a  bunch  of 
other  junk  and  then  he — wait,  I'll  read  you  the  fin- 
ish. He  says — 'and  being  desirous  of  showing  my 
appreciation  of  your  efforts  in  a  concrete  way  I 
have  decided  to  intrust  to  you  the  general  direction 
of  the  publicity  campaign  of  'The  Ganges  Prin- 
cess.' I  will  send  someone  to  take  over  'Keep  Mov- 
ing' on  Saturday,  and  you  will  kindly  report  at  this 
office  on  Monday  morning.'  " 
—  212  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

Matthews,  who  had  sauntered  over  to  Jimmy's 
desk  during  the  reading  of  Chester  Bartlett's  let- 
ter, looked  frankly  bewildered. 

"I'm  pretty  dense,  I  guess,"  he  said.  "I  don't  see 
anything  in  that  to  cause  you  to  exhibit  any  signs 
of  distress.  He's  handing  you  the  prize  job  of  the 
season  on  a  gold  platter.  You  couldn't  stop  the 
papers  from  printing  stuff  about  that  show  with 
an  injunction  from  the  Supreme  Court.  Don't  you 
realize  that?" 

"Oh,  that  part  of  it's  all  right,"  replied  Jimmy. 
"I  suppose  I've  got  a  nerve  to  put  up  a  holler,  but 
I  can't  help  it.  It's  this  thing  of  bein'  bounced 
about  like  a  tennis  ball  that  makes  me  sore.  The 
minute  I  get  sewed  up  with  one  show  and  the  ma- 
chinery in  the  little  old  idea  factory  gets  all  oiled 
up  and  is  makin'  286  revolutions  to  the  minute, 
along  comes  a  letter  or  a  wire  shootin'  me  on  to 
join  somethin'  else.  Gee,  I  wish  I  was  workin' 
for  myself  and  not  for  the  other  guy." 

Jimmy  would  have  resented  any  suggestion  that 
the  look  which  crept  into  his  eyes  as  he  said  this 
was  wistful,  but  it  was  just  that.  He  paused  and 
gazed  out  of  the  window  at  the  scurrying  throng  of 
early  morning  shoppers.  Across  his  face  there 
came  and  went  the  shadow  of  a  pathetic  smile,  a 
smile  that  seemed  to  express  for  a  moment  the 
elation  of  holding  within  his  grasp  the  very  sub- 
stance of  things^  hoped  for  and  which  instantly 
merged  into  something  that  epitomized  utter  hope- 

—  213  — 


Fresh   Every   Hour 

lessness.  Matthews  sensed  his  mood  and  put  his 
hand  on  the  press  agent's  shoulder. 

"Why  don't  you  take  a  flier  on  your  own?"  He 
asked.  "Everybody  in  the  business  would  wish  you 
well." 

Jimmy  snorted  derisively. 

"What  would  I  use  for  money?"  he  inquired  sar- 
castically. "Playwrights  ain't  takin*  good  wishes 
for  advance  royalties  and  you  can't  slip  a  few  kind 
words  into  the  salary  envelopes  on  Saturday  night." 

"But  it  don't  take  so  much  to  make  a  start," 
persisted  the  other.  "Don't  you  manage  to  save 
anything  at  all?" 

"Sure.  I've  got  almost  enough  cigarette  coupons 
to  get  a  gold  plated  safety  razor  or  a  genuine  silk 
umbrella,  and  there's  20  shares  of  Flying  Frog  cop- 
per stock  in  the  tray  of  my  trunk.  That  must  be 
worth  all  of  a  dollar  and  eight  cents,  and  it  cost 
me  about  thirty  dollars,  too.  Quit  your  kiddin', 
old  man.  An  agent  has  about  as  much  chance  these 
days  of  savin'  money  as  the  Kaiser  has  of  bein' 
invited  to  a  week-end  party  by  the  King  of  Eng- 
land." 

Jimmy  stood  up  and  began  to  pace  slowly  up  and 
down  the  room.  The  wistful  look  came  into  his 
eyes  again  and  the  longing  smile  touched  his  mouth 
once  more. 

"Still,"  he  said,  half  to  himself,    "it's  kind  of  nice 

to  think  about  ownin'  your  own  show  even  if  you 

know  you  never  will,  and  to  sort  of  get  a  flash  in 

your  mind's  eye  of  a  twenty-four  sheet  with  'James 

— 214— 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

T.  Martin  presents'  splashed  across  the  top  of  it  in 
black  on  yellow  with  red  initials.  'James  T.  Mar- 
tin presents' — that'd  certainly  look  immense  on  that 
low  board  on  Broadway  near  Forty-fifth  street  that 
hits  everybody  on  the  big  street  right  in  the  eye." 
Matthews,  in  response  to  a  summons  from  the 
box-office,  left  him  still  soliloquizing  under  his 
breath  and  gazing  pensively  across  the  snow  cov- 
ered Common. 

"The  Ganges  Princess"  was  the  dramatic  sensa- 
tion of  a  decade.  It  had  been  running  for  a  solid 
year  at  the  huge  ITendrik  Hudson  Theatre  in  New 
York,  having  weathered  a  hot  summer  with  hardly 
a  noticeable  falling  off  of  receipts.  It  was  Chester 
Bartlett's  first  venture  into  what  is  technically 
known  as  the  "legitimate  field"  and  he  had  staged 
it  with  that  lavish  disregard  for  expense  and  with 
that  keen  sense  of  the  artistic  which  had  given  him 
pre-eminence  as  a  producer  of  light  musical  enter- 
tainment. 

Written  by  one  of  America's  most  flambuoyant 
playwrights  it  told  a  turgid  story  of  Oriental  pas- 
sion and  treachery  set  against  a  spectacular  back- 
ground depicting  scenes  in  ancient  India.  As  sheer 
spectacle  it  quite  transcended  anything  hitherto  at- 
tempted in  the  United  States.  It  presented  a  series 
of  settings  which  were  so  flaming  in  their  color,  so 
permeated  with  the  mystery  of  the  East  and  so 
splendid  in  their  suggestion  of  great  size  and  vast 
distances  that  each  new  revelation  was  invariably 

—  215  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

greeted  with  gasps  of  amazement  from  the  au- 
dience. A  cast  bristling  with  distinguished  names 
gave  versimilitude  to  the  somewhat  bombastic  dia- 
logue and  purely  incidental  members  of  the  com- 
pany included  a  troupe  of  fifty  real  nautch-girls, 
six  elephants,  five  camels  and  a  flock  of  sheep. 

"The  Ganges  Princess'  was  not  merely  the  talk 
of  New  York.  It  was  literally  the  talk  of  the  coun- 
try and  its  forthcoming  tour  promised  to  be  one  of 
the  most  important  in  the  history  of  the  American 
theatre.  It  was  booked  for  extended  engagements 
in  only  a  few  of  the  larger  cities,  there  being  a 
comparatively  limited  number  of  places  containing 
playhouses  with  stages  large  enough  to  accommo- 
date the  production  and  possessing  auditoriums  of 
sufficient  size  to  insure  financial  success 

Bartlett  had  mapped  out  a  plan  of  exploitation 
which  was  quite  the  most  comprehensive  ever  un- 
dertaken in  the  annals  of  press  agentry.  No  less 
than  half  a  dozen  advance  couriers — the  pick  of  the 
country — were  to  devote  their  energies  to  the  ad- 
vertising and  newspaper  campaign  alone,  while  the 
purely  business  details  were  to  be  intrusted  to 
trained  experts  who  were  to  have  no  other  duties. 
This  would  leave  the  purveyors  of  publicity  free 
and  untrammelled  in  their  assaults  upon  the  press 
and  a  defenseless  public. 

Jimmy  Martin  was  to  be  generalissimo,  com- 
mander-in-chief  and  field  marshal  of  the  combined 
forces  and  was  to  be  entrusted  with  delegated  pow- 
ers such  as  had  never  before  been  given  to  anyone 
—  216  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

holding  a  similar  position.  Matthews  had  under- 
stated the  case  when  he  referred  to  the  place  as  the 
prize  job  of  the  season.  It  wasn't  even  comparable. 
Nothing  like  it  had  ever  been  known  for  opportu- 
nity and  power,  since  the  modern  variety  of  press 
agent  came  into  being.  Jimmy  realized  that  him- 
self after  Bartlett  had  finished  outlining  the  scope 
of  the  proposed  campaign. 

"Go  to  it,  my  boy,"  the  manager  said  at  the  com- 
pletion of  an  hour's  talk,  "and  remember  that  the 
azure  dome  of  heaven  is  the  limit  and  that  in  the 
bright  lexicon  of  showmanship  there  are  no  such 
words  as  'it  can't  be  done.'  Do  I  make  myself 
clear?" 

"Absolutely,"  replied  Jimmy  cheerfully.  "I'm  to 
sit  with  my  feet  in  a  mustard  bath  and  I'm  to  play 
my  cards  without  regard  to  the  feelin's,  digestions, 
general  state  of  temperature  or  politics  of  anyone 
else  in  the  game.  I'm  to  see  all  raises  and  tilt  it 
one  for  luck  whenever  I  think  the  time  is  ripe  for  a 
killin'.  Have  I  got  the  right  combination?" 

Bartlett  laughed  heartily  at  the  flavory  idioms 
which  flowed  so  freely  from  Jimmy's  lips. 

"Thou  hast,  most  potent,  grave  and  reverend  sig- 
nor,"  he  replied,  bowing  low  in  exaggerated  mock 
courtesy.  "By  the  way,"  he  continued,  getting  back 
to  business  again,  "there's  another  thing  I  com- 
pletely forgot.  I've  engaged  a  literary  chap  for  a 
special  stunt,  and  I  want  you  to  figure  out  some 
way  of  getting  it  across  so  that  it  seems  on  the 
level. 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"The  general  idea  is  to  have  this  fellow  deliver 
a  series  of  lectures  on  India  about  three  weeks 
ahead  of  the  play  date.  It'll  be  a  camouflaged  boost 
for  the  show.  Every  once  in  a  while  he'll  make 
some  casual  remark  about  the  play  which  he  under- 
stands is  shortly  to  be  seen  in  this  city,  et  cetera, 
but  there  won't  be  enough  of  this  stuff  for  anyone 
to  consider  it  as  being  at  all  out  of  the  way. 

"This  gentleman  will  be  under  your  direct  and 
special  control.  It  will  be  up  to  you  to  arrange  to 
have  lectures  given  in  every  city  under  the  auspices 
of  some  literary  society  or  social  welfare  group  or 
under  the  patronage  of  the  Daughters  of  the  Amer- 
ican Revolution — any  kind  of  a  crowd  that'll  give 
the  stunt  prestige  and  distinction.  I've  written  Mr. 
Denby  to  meet  you  at  the  theatre  this  evening." 

"Denby,  eh?  It  can't  possibly  be  little  old  J. 
Herbert  Denby,  the  highbrow  kid,  can  it?" 

"That's  the  name.    Know  him?" 

A  grin  of  delight  spread  over  Jimmy's  features. 

"Fairly  well,"  he  chuckled.  "He  tipped  me  off  to 
a  grand  idea  over  in  Baltimore  a  year  or  so  ago. 
Old  George  B.  Bookworm,  eh?  If  he's  still  doin' 
his  regular  act  I've  got  a  lot  of  laughs  comin'  to  me 
on  this  trip.  Say,  you  don't  know  how  good  that 
bird'll  be  for  a  stunt  of  this  kind.  When  it  comes 
to  the  uplift  stuff  and  the  literary  bunk  he's  there 
in  seven  separate  and  distinct  languages.  And  in- 
nocent !  Say,  he  could  could  make  a  two  year  old 
baby  look  like  an  old  offender  with  a  Sing  Sing 
past.  They'll  fall  for  him  on  sight." 
—  218  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

The  guileless  Mr.  Denby  greeted  Jimmy  in  the 
lobby  of  the  Hendrik  Hudson  that  night  in  his  best 
professorial  manner  and  smiled  benignantly  through 
his  tortoise  shell  glasses. 

"You  will,  I  think,  concede,  Mr.  Martin,"  said 
he,  proffering  a  rather  limp  hand,  "that  we  give 
the  lie  direct  to  Mr.  Kipling." 

"Eh?  What's  that?"  mumbled  the  other.  "I 
don't  get  you." 

Mr.  Denby  smiled  condescendingly  and  replied 
in  a  tone  of  voice  that  Jimmy  felt  to  be  a  bit  too 
irritatingly  suave. 

"Mr.  Kipling — the  poet — you  know.  He  says, 
'East  is  East  and  West  is  West,  and  never  the  twain 
shall  meet.'  Well,  we  are  meeting  on  a  common 

ground  in  a  common  cause  and  we  are may  I 

venture  to  suggest — decidedly  alien  to  each  other 
in  our  thoughts  and  sympathies,  are  we  not?" 

Jimmy  eyed  him  suspiciously  before  replying. 

"Listen,  old  dear,"  he  said  evenly,  "I  can  never 
quite  figure  whether  you're  kiddin'  me  or  not  and 
I'm  going  to  be  too  busy  from  now  on  to  ask  for 
diagrams.  If  we're  goin'  to  get  together  you've 
got  to  get  out  the  little  old  parachute  and  jump  off 
into  space.  In  plain  English  you've  got  to  dive 
down  to  earth  and  keep  both  feet  on  the  pavement. 
Save  the  flossy  stuff  for  your  lectures.  Are  you 
on?" 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  stammered  Mr.  Denby. 
"I  meant  no  offense.    I  have  an  unfortunate  habit 
of  making  poetic  allusions.    I  shall  correct  it.    Be- 
—  219  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

lieve  me,  my  dear  Mr.  Martin,  I  shall  correct  it. 
I  have  much  to  say  to  you.  Where  shall  we  have 
a  little — a  little, — shall  I  say  pow-wow — to  talk 
over  the — the  ah — dope?" 

"That's  the  idea,"  replied  Jimmy,  slapping  the 
other  on  the  back  and  laughing  heartily.  "That's 
regular  language.  Let's  go  back  to  the  stage  man- 
ager's office  and  work  out  a  plan  of  attack." 

The  press  agent  led  the  way  through  a  passage 
which  ran  behind  the  boxes  to  the  stage  and  they 
presently  found  themselves  dodging  the  canvas 
walls  of  a  great  Indian  temple  which  were  being 
deftly  swung  into  position  by  a  small  army  of  stage 
hands  and  picking  their  steps  cautiously  through 
a  cluttered  array  of  papier-mache  Buddhas,  can- 
opied thrones  and  other  properties.  Once  closeted 
in  the  little  office  in  a  far  corner  they  began  a  con- 
sultation which  lasted  for  more  than  an  hour. 

It  was  agreed  that  Jimmy  was  to  travel  suffi- 
ciently far  enough  ahead  of  J.  Herbert  Denby  to 
arrange  for  and  advertise  his  lectures  and  the  press 
agent  took  pains  to  carefully  instruct  the  latter  as 
to  the  best  methods  of  keeping  his  connection  with 
"The  Ganges  Princess"  company  a  remote  and 
cherished  secret.  The  subjects  chosen  by  the  lec- 
turer were,  to  say  the  least,  not  calculated  to  arouse 
any  suspicion.  Jimmy  sat  entranced  as  J.  Herbert 
read  them  off  from  a  typewritten  slip  he  took  from 
his  card-case. 

"I  shall  talk  first,"  he  said,  "upon  The  Rig-Veda 
— A  Primitive  Folk  Song  Embodying  the  Soul  of 
—  220  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

an  Ancient  People.'  I  shall  follow  that  with  a  dis- 
course on  'Brahma,  Vishnu  and  Siva — The  Triple 
Manifestation  of  the  Hindu  God'  and  for  my  third 
and  final  lecture  I  have  chosen  perhaps  a  more 
popular  theme — 'Mogul  versus  Mahratta — A  Study 
in  Dynastic  Conflicts.'  Do  you  think  that  program 
will  fill  the  bill?" 

Jimmy  was  plainly  a  little  bit  groggy  and  he 
found  it  difficult  to  articulate  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"Say,  old  scout,"  he  finally  managed  to  remark. 
"I'm  almost  down  for  the  count.  You  talk  like  an 
encyclopedia.  You'll  have  'em  all  pop-eyed  when 
you  pull  that  stuff.  The  harder  it  is  to  understand 
the  harder  they'll  fall.  You're  there,  George  B. 
Bookworm,  you're  there.  I  can  see  'em  passin' 
flowers  over  the  footlights  already." 

J.  Herbert,  appreciating  the  sincerity  of  Jimmy's 
enthusiastic  approval,  blushed  a  little  and  tried  to 
appear  at  ease,  but  it  was  a  difficult  task.  The  two 
strolled  out  on  the  darkened  stage  and  stood  in  the 
wings  watching  the  unfolding  of  the  final  scene  of 
the  second  act  in  which  the  Maharajah  of  Rum- 
pore  returned  unexpectedly,  with  his  followers, 
from  a  tiger-hunting  expedition  to  find  his  favorite 
wife  in  the  arms  of  the  villainous  Begum  of  Baroda. 

They  found  themselves  suddenly  wedged  in  the 
center  of  a  crowd  of  male  supernumeraries  who 
had  come  clattering  down  the  stairs  leading  from 
the  dressing  rooms,  accoutered  in  ancient  armour 
and  ready  for  participation  in  the  stirring  episode 
which  was  to  bring  the  act  to  a  close.  Most  of 
—  221  — 


these  "extra  people,"  that  being  their  classification 
in  the  world  of  the  theatre,  were  the  usual  assort- 
ment of  shiftless  idlers  who  eke  out  a  precarious 
existence  by  doing  such  odd  jobs  on  the  stage  and 
whose  Oriental  aspect  was  purely  a  matter  of  sim- 
ulation. There  were,  however,  a  number  of  gen- 
uine East  Indians  among  them,  random  visitors 
from  an  alien  clime  picked  up  here  and  there  and 
utilized  to  give  an  added  air  of  versimilitude  to  the 
ensemble  scenes. 

One  of  these  latter,  a  handsome  chap  under  thirty, 
whose  skin  was  the  color  of  strong  coffee  diluted 
with  rich  cream  and  whose  features  had  the  classic 
regularity  of  a  Grecian  sculptured  head,  brushed 
against  Jimmy's  elbow  and  apologized  profusely. 

"I  am  very  much  sorry  if  I  have  caused  myself 
to  discommode  you,"  he  murmured,  smiling  pleas- 
antly and  revealing  a  row  of  teeth  of  dazzling 
whiteness. 

"That's  all  right,"  replied  Jimmy,  looking  at  him 
in  surprise.  "You're  a  regular,  I  see.  You  don't 
belong  to  the  volunteers." 

"No,  sahib,  I  am  from  the  East.  I  am  long  dis- 
tance from  home-land  of  my  fathers,  if  that  is  what 
you  mean." 

Jimmy  looked  at  him  with  new  interest.  He  had 
an  air  about  him,  an  indefinable  air  of  distinction 
that  attracted  the  attention  of  even  the  aesthetic  J. 
Herbert  Denby,  who  edged  closer  and  entered  the 
conversation. 

"Your  English  is  excellent,"  he  remarked.     "You 

—  222  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

have  perhaps  studied  in  one  of  our  universities?" 

"No,  sahib,  not  here — in  Oxford.  I  have  been  in 
this  country  but  a  few  months.  Life  has  been  a 
difficult  problem  here  in  this  great  democracy,  but  I 
am  a  fatalist,  sahib,  and  I  do  not  make  myself  un- 
easiness as  to  the  future.  It  is  useless  for  it  is 
written  already  on  the  scrolls  of  time." 

The  next  instant  he  swept  forward  on  to  the 
stage  with  the  others  in  response  to  a  signal  from 
the  stage  manager  who  was  peering  through  a 
small  hole  in  the  scenery. 

"My  word,"  said  the  astonished  Mr.  Denby. 
"Fancy  a  chap  like  that  being  content  to  figure  as 
one  of  the  mob.  He  has  the  grand  manner  of  an 
Indian  prince.'' 

Jimmy  looked  up  at  him  quickly. 

"It's  moved  and  seconded  that  we  make  him  one," 
he  said. 

"What's  that?" 

"All  in  favor  of  the  motion  signify  their  assent 
by  saying  'Aye.'  Aye!  Contrary — no.  The  ayes 
have  it  and  the  motion  is  carried.  What'll  we  call 
him?" 

"I  must  confess  that  I  don't  grasp  the  signifi- 
cance of  what  you  mean,"  said  the  puzzled  Mr. 
Denby. 

>"You  will,"  returned  Jimmy  as  he  led  the  way 
out  to  the  front  of  the  house  again.  "I'm  goin'  to 
give  you  a  little  playmate  on  this  trip  if  I  can  get 
Bartlett  to  go  along.  Local  color  stuff.  You've 
slipped  me  another  grand  little  idea,  old  man.  It's 
a  bear." 

—  223— 


Chapter  Twenty-Six 

Prince  Rajput  Singh,  the  mythical  only  son  of  the 
Nazir  of  Hydrabad,  descended  on  Chicago  two  weeks 
later  accompanied  by  J.  Herbert  Denby,  the  distin- 
guished authority  on  Far  Eastern  affairs.  Their 
arrival  at  the  Senate  Hotel  just  before  the  dinner 
hour  was  a  spectacular  divertisement,  to  say  the 
least,  and  one  well  calculated  to  make  the  unsus- 
pecting general  public  sit  up  and  take  notice. 

His  Royal  Highness  wore  a  great  gray  cloak 
when  he  passed  through  the  main  entrance  of  the 
hotel  flanked  on  his  right  by  the  impeccable  Mr. 
Denby  and  preceded  by  two  massive  and  upstanding 
Hindus  whose  bearded  faces  were  frozen  into  a 
semblance  of  stoical  indifference  that  was  as  grim 
and  forbidding  as  a  box-office  man's  impenetrable 
and  imperturbable  mask.  On  his  head  he  wore  a 
white  turban  trimmed  with  golden  braid  and  his 
feet  were  encased  in  richly  embroidered  red  slip- 
pers with  turned-up  toes. 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  surveying  with  a  con- 
descending air  the  crowd  of  gaping  men  which 
filled  the  lobbv,  and  then  clapped  his  hands  sharply 
twice.  The  Hindu  attendants  moved  into  position 
back  of  him.  Another  pause  and  then,  with  a  ges- 
ture of  surpassing  elegance  he  dropped  the  cloak 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

from  his  shoulders  into  their  waiting  arms.  No 
Roman  emperor  had  ever  done  it  better,  Mr.  Denby 
thought  to  himself.  The  prince  stood  revealed  in 
a  gorgeous  silken  robe  which  was  such  a  shimmer- 
ing mass  of  color  that  it  almost  made  one  blink  to 
look  at  it.  Purples,  flaming  shades  of  orange  and 
greens  which  seemed  to  suggest  the  rank  lush 
foliage  of  some  tropical  jungle  were  the  predomi- 
nating shades.  The  robe  was  admirably  designed 
to  set  off  to  the  best  advantage  the  dark  and  finely 
chiselled  features  of  His  Royal  Highness,  who 
greeted  the  manager  of  the  hotel  with  an  air  of 
haughty  reserve  that  was  positively  imperial  in 
its  implications. 

His  progress  through  the  lobby  to  the  elevator 
was  made  amid  a  silence  that  Mr.  Denby  after- 
wards paradoxically  referred  to  as  "audible"  and 
when  the  clanging  doors  closed  behind  him  and  he 
was  shot  up  to  his  quarters  on  the  third  floor,  the 
feelings  of  all  the  awed  onlookers  found  expression 
in  a  concerted  gasp. 

Jimmy  Martin,  watching  the  proceedings  from 
behind  the  cover  of  a  newspaper  which  he  pre- 
tended to  be  reading  while  he  sprawled  over  a  great 
leather  chair,  chuckled  quietly  to  himself  and  agreed 
that  he  was  a  grand  little  stage  manager.  Then  he 
slipped  out  on  to  windswept  Michigan  avenue  and 
waJked  briskly  away  to  his  own  hotel.  He  longed 
to  remain  and  watch  his  drama  unfold,  but  discre- 
tion warned  him  that  it  would  be  well  for  him  to 
keep  in  seclusion  for  the  present,  inasmuch  as  rep- 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

resentatives  of  the  fourth  estate  would  undoubtedly 
descend  on  the  hotel  shortly  in  a  body. 

Prince  Rajput  Singh  graciously  received  the  gen- 
tlemen of  the  press  an  hour  later  and  discoursed 
at  length  upon  the  past,  present  and  future  of  India. 
Hearing  that  his  distinguished  friend,  the  Sahib 
Denby,  whom  he  had  entertained  some  years  ago  at 
his  father's  palace  while  the  former  was  traveling 
in  the  far  east,  was  planning  a  lecture  tour  he  had 
decided,  he  said,  to  visit  America  himself  and  lend 
his  aid  to  the  project. 

"It  has  been  long  dream  of  my  existence,"  he  an- 
nounced grandly,  picking  his  words  carefully,  "to 
assist  in  bringing  to  new  world  of  the  west  the 
culture  and  wisdom  of  the  east.  You  have  made 
wonderful  discoveries  in  the  world  of  material 
things.  We  have  long  ago  found  the  secret  of  the 
soul.  It  is  well  we  should  make  ourselves  friends." 

The  prince  posed  for  flashlight  photographs  sit- 
ting in  a  great  arm  chair  with  his  Hindu  attendants, 
arms  folded,  standing  erect  and  immovable  behind 
him.  All  in  all  a  pleasant  time  was  had  by  everyone 
concerned  and  the  results  in  the  newspapers  on  the 
following  morning  were  all  that  the  most  optimistic 
and  sanguine  publicity  promoter  could  have  desired. 
Two  and  three  column  pictures  of  His  Royal  High- 
ness were  given  prominent  positions  and  each  inter- 
view was  tagged  with  a  paragraph  announcing  the 
first  of  Mr.  Denby's  lectures  which  was  to  be  given 
a  day  later  in  the  grand  ballroom  of  the  hotel.  The 
—  226  — 


'Fresh  Every  Hour 

prince,  it  was  announced,  would  supplement  the  lec- 
turer's remarks  with  a  little  talk  of  his  own. 

Jimmy  Martin,  calling  on  him  for  the  purpose  of 
giving  him  a  few  more  instructions  concerning  his 
general  deportment  and  demeanor  on  the  morrow, 
was  somewhat  dazzled  by  the  splendor  of  his  sur- 
roundings and  by  the  extent  of  the  apartment  as- 
signed to  him.  There  were  five  rooms  in  all,  over- 
looking the  lake,  and  there  was  a  canopied  bed  on 
a  raised  platform  in  one  of  them  as  well  as  other 
evidences  of  extreme  luxury  to  which  he  was  not 
accustomed.  He  hunted  up  his  friend,  the  assistant 
manager  of  the  hotel. 

"Say,  Wilkins,"  he  said  cautiously.  "I've  been 
up  to  see  this  prince  you've  got  stopping  here. 
That's  some  set  of  rooms.  I  wonder  what  they're 
going  to  set  him  back." 

"That's  the  royal  suite/'  replied  Wilkins.  "We 
don't  get  much  of  a  chance  to  get  any  real  royalty 
very  often,  and  I'm  making  the  old  boy  a  special 
rate.  Mr.  Denby  arranged  for  it.  We're  only  only 
going  to  charge  him  two  hundred  dollars  a  day." 

"My  God,"  stammered  Jimmy,  almost  swallowing 
his  cigarette  and  clutching  the  other  by  the  arm, 
"you  can't  do  a  thing  like  that." 

The  look  of  hopeless  distress  on  the  press  agent's 
face  caused  the  hotel  man  to  laugh  uproariously, 
for  a  moment,  but  he  checked  himself  suddenly. 

"What's  the  idea?"  he  inquired.  "Why  can't  we? 
You  act  as  if  we  were  going  to  charge  the  bill  to 
you." 

—  227  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"Maybe  you  are,  old  man,"  was  Jimmy's  response 
as  he  led  Wilkins  over  to  the  latter's  little  office.  "I 
want  to  slip  you  a  little  side-line  of  conversation 
that  you've  got  to  promise  to  keep  Masonic." 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  in  the  quiet  sanctity  of 
the  little  office  Jimmy  oulined  certain  unpublished 
details  concerning  the  activities  and  real  mission  of 
Prince  Rajput  Singh  though  he  said  nothing  about 
that  dusky  gentleman's  previous  condition  of  servi- 
tude. He  represented  him  as  being  a  genuine  In- 
dian nobleman,  temporarily  down  on  his  luck,  who 
had  consented  to  assist  in  a  carefully  contrived  and 
ingenious  scheme  of  indirect  advertising. 

"Have  a  heart,  old  man,"  he  pleaded  when  he  had 
finished.  "If  you  scale  that  two  hundred  down  to 
about — well,  say  twenty-five  and  Bartlett'll  have 
heart  failure  even  at  that  figure — I'll  arrange  to 
have  his  royal  niblets  have  dinner  every  night  in 
your  Egyptian  dining  room.  You  know  yourself 
you  don't  do  much  trade  in  there.  We'll  have  those 
two  Hindu  birds  cook  a  lot  of  these  curry  dishes 
right  there  in  full  view  of  the  audience  and  wait  on 
him.  You'll  be  able  to  hang  the  little  old  S.  R.  O. 
sign  out  in  a  couple  of  days,  take  it  from  me." 

The  assistant  manager  succumbed  to  Jimmy's 
siren  song  and  consented  to  slash  the  rate  for  the 
royal  suite  in  return  for  the  special  performance 
by  the  prince  and  his  entourage  which  the  press 
agent  promised  to  stage  nightly. 

Mr.  J.  Herbert  Denby  and  Prince  Rajput  Singh 
made  their  joint  debut  on  the  lecture  platform  on 
—  228  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

the  following  afternoon  before  a  select  and  soulful 
audience  largely  composed  of  middle-aged  females 
who  hung  rapturously  on  every  word  uttered  by 
both  speakers. 

Mr.  Denby  was  in  fine  form.  His  discourse  on 
"The  Rig- Veda"  was  as  vague  and  misty  as  a  treat- 
ise on  the  Hegelian  philosophy  and  about  as  full  of 
real  mental  nourishment  for  that  particular  audi- 
ence as  a  scientific  monograph  on  the  bony  struc- 
ture of  the  dactylopterus  volitans  would  have  been. 
He  soared  into  the  outer  void  and  returned  with 
bay-leaves  on  his  brow  and  with  esoteric  phrases 
dripping  from  his  tongue.  The  more  hopelessly  in- 
volved he  became  in  the  mystic  mazes  of  his  meta- 
physical theme,  the  more  ardent  seemed  to  be  the 
rapt  devotion  with  which  his  listeners  received  his 
remarks.  When  he  finished  in  one  grand,  exultant 
outburst  of  poetic  fervor  a  hushed  silence  fell  upon 
the  gathering  and  when  a  ripple  of  applause  broke 
in  upon  it  there  were  those  whose  brows  darkened 
as  if  something  holy  had  been  profaned. 

It  remained,  however,  for  the  pseudo  Prince  Raj- 
put Singh  to  achieve  the  real  sensation  of  the  after- 
noon. Arrayed  in  a  purple  robe  and  turban  of  ex- 
quisite silk  and  carrying  himself  with  a  careless  air 
of  superb  distinction  that  was  fascinating  to  watch, 
he  delivered  a  brief  talk  in  which  he  pleaded  for  a 
better  understanding  between  the  East  and  the 
West  and  urged  a  study  of  Indian  ways  and  cus- 
toms as  the  best  method  of  bringing  such  an  entente 
cordiale  about,  such  a  study  as  was  rendered  pos- 
—  229  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

sible,  for  instance,  by  witnessing  a  performance  of 
a  play  he  had  recently  seen  in  New  York — was  it 
called  "The  Ganges  Princess?" — he  was  not  sure. 

His  dark  face  gleamed  with  animation  as  he  spoke 
and  his  grey  eyes  sparkled.  When  he  smiled  his 
white  teeth  flashed  briliantly  in  the  rays  of  the  aft- 
ernoon sun  which  poured  through  the  mullioned 
windows  and  when  he  laughed,  tossing  his  head 
back  like  some  medieval  troubadour  in  rollicking 
mood,  all  the  impressionable  women  there  present, 
young  and  old,  went  voyaging  for  a  moment  or  two 
into  the  land  of  romance,  and  forgotten  memory 
pictures  of  scenes  from  the  Arabian  Nights  came 
trooping  back  into  their  several  and  respective,  not 
to  mention  respectable,  minds. 

Taking  it  by  and  large  Ranjit  Lai,  former  super- 
numerary, devious  adventurer  in  a  foreign  clime, 
and  now,  by  the  gr^e  of  one  James  T.  Martin, 
Prince  Rajput  Singh,  was,  in  the  parlance  of  the 
boulevards,  a  knockout.  When  the  formal  festiv- 
ities were  over  he  was  surrounded  by  a  chattering 
swarm  of  females  of  assorted  ages  and  subjected  to 
that  particular  form  of  obsequious  flattery  which  is 
usually  reserved  by  the  weaker  sex  for  long-haired 
pianists  and  corpulent  Italian  tenors. 

Mr.  J.  Herbert  Denby,  feeling  himself  somewhat 
out  of  the  picture,  viewed  the  proceedings  from  a 
short  distance  away  and  particularly  noticed  one 
worshipper  who  had  edged  herself  into  a  position 
directly  in  front  of  his  confrere  and  who  seemed  to 
—  230  — 


Fresh   Every   Hour 

be  trying  to  entirely  monopolize  the  swarthy- 
skinned  lion  of  the  occasion. 

She  was  at  least  fifty.  There  was  no  doubting 
that,  though  she  was  dressed,  with  all  the  gay  aban- 
don of  a  debutante,  in  a  silken  frock  which  did  not 
quite  touch  the  tops  of  her  extremely  high  boots. 
She  was  also  inclined  to  stoutness,  though  a 
straight  front  corset  kept  her  somewhat  ample  pro- 
portions cabined  and  confined  permitting  her  to 
present  to  the  world  at  large  at  least  a  semblance 
of  curvilinear  grace.  There  was,  Mr.  Denby 
thought,  something  decidedly  suspicious  looking 
about  her  flaxen  tresses  whose  symmetrically  mar- 
celled regularity  was  relieved  by  two  little  curls 
which  hung  coyly  in  front  of  each  ear.  She  was, 
it  was  plain  to  see,  convinced  that  she  was  the  living 
embodiment  of  Peter  Pan,  the  young  person  who 
never  grew  old. 

Mr.  Denby  could  hear  her  high  pitched  voice  and 
the  gurgling  laugh  with  which  she  punctuated  al- 
most every  remark. 

"I  won't  take  'no'  for  an  answer,  you  dear  man," 
she  was  saying.  "Four  thirty  tomorrow  afternoon 
in  our  Indian  room  —  I'll  have  just  a  few  notables 
there  and  I  have  just  one  favor  to  ask  of  you. 
Please  bring  those  perfectly  dear  gentlemen  with 
whiskers  along  to  help  serve.  They'll  help  my 
background?  Don't  you  just  love  the  proper 
background?  It's  so  stimulating.  Oh,  yes,  back- 
ground is  the  most  important  thing  in  life,  if  you 
grasp  what  I  mean." 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

A  grunt  escaped  a  tired  looking  man  next  Mr. 
Denby.  It  was  so  expressive  that  the  eminent  au- 
thority on  the  Far  East  turned  a  questioning  look 
on  his  neighbor. 

"Who  is  she?"  he  inquired. 

"That's  Fannie  Easton,"  replied  the  tired-look- 
ing man.  "Old  maid  sister  of  Junius  P.  You've 
heard  of  him,  of  course.  Oodles  of  money,  houses 
in  Chicago  and  New  York,  ranch  in  California,  villa 
in  Florence,  three  private  yachts  and  not  a  damned 
soul  to  decorate  'em  with  except  that  blond  nut 
sundae.  Life's  a  weird  thing,  sir.  Too  much  for 
me." 

Mr.  Denby,  forgetting  his  own  isolation  for  the 
moment,  watched  the  continuation  of  the  episode 
with  a  new  interest.  He  saw  the  gurgling  Miss 
Easton  catch  hold  of  his  associate's  arm  and  he 
observed  that  the  latter  was  devoting-  himself  to 
her  with  assiduous  attention  as  they  walked  slowly 
out  into  the  corridor  and  disappeared,  leaving  be- 
hind a  collection  of  thoroue'hlv  disanoointed  admir- 
ers. As  She  echoes  of  a  silly  laugh  came  floating 
on  the  air  from  some  unseen  corner  of  the  hallway, 
something  seemed  fo  tell  Mr.  Denby  that  all  was 
not  well. 


Chapter  Twenty-Seven 

Junius  P.  Easton,  popularly  known  on  "the 
Street"  as  "old  J.  P.,"  was  sulking  in  his  tent  like 
a  certain  ancient  Greek,  the  said  tent  being  the 
Florentine  libary  in  his  lake-side  home.  He  was 
pacing  up  and  down  the  great  sombre  room  with  its 
tapestried  walls  and  its  high  raftered  ceiling,  chew- 
ing ferociously  on  a  thick  cigar,  mumbling  incoher- 
ently and  thinking  things  utterly  unfit  for  publica- 
tion. Every  two  or  three  minutes  he  paused  at  the 
door  opening  into  the  music  room  and  listened  to 
the  confused  medley  of  sounds  which  came  to  him 
from  an  apartment  in  a  far  corner  of  the  house — 
the  light  laughter  of  women,  the  clink  of  china  tea 
thiners  and  the  occasional  echo  of  a  man's  voice,  an 
aggravatingly  bland  and  urbane  voice  with  a  trace 
of  a  foreign  accent  in  its  rythms. 

Evervtime  T.  P.  caught  the  sound  of  that  voice 
his  bushy  and  grizzled  eye-brows  came  together 
over  a  deep  perpendicular  furrow  in  his  forehead 
and  he  swore  audibly  and  with  gusto.  This  per- 
formance had  been  going  on  ever  since  a  quarter 
to  five  that  afternoon  when  he  had  arrived  home 
from  his  office  after  a  particularly  trying  day  full 
of  perplexing  business  problems  and  had  been 
greeted  by  the  butler  with  the  announcement  that 

—  233  — 


FresH  Every  Hour 

Miss  Fannie  was  entertaining  some  sort  of  an  In- 
dian prince  and  a  group  of  friends  at  tea. 

J.  P.  had  tip-toed  to  the  door  of  the  Indian  room, 
had  cautiously  peeped  through  the  heavy  curtain 
and  had  been  greeted  with  the  spectacle  of  Prince 
Rajput  Singh,  flanked  by  his  be-whiskered  servi- 
tors, lounging  luxuriously  on  a  divan  completely 
surrounded  by  adoring  females  of  uncertain  age 
among  whom  his  more  or  less  revered  sister  was 
the  central  figure.  Fannie  was  running  true  to 
form  and  was  successfully  monopolizing  the  atten- 
tions of  the  foreign  visitor. 

Filled  with  disgust  J.  P.  had  tip-toed  away  from 
from  the  scene  to  the  quiet  serenity  of  the  library 
and  had  begun  his  imitation  of  a  caged  beast  of 
the  jungle.  It  was  one  of  the  best  things  he  did 
and  he  generally  felt  himself  called  upon  to  per- 
form in  this  manner  two  or  three  times  a  week  for 
there  was  no  way  of  every  figuring  what  Fannie 
was  going  to  do  next  or  who  she  was  going  to 
invite  into  the  house.  One  afternoon  it  might  be 
an  anarchist  preaching  the  parlor  variety  of  red 
revolutionary  doctrine  and  the  next  it  was  just  as 
likely  to  be  the  latest  exponent  of  the  simple  life, 
tastefully  attired  in  sandals  and  a  robe  made  from 
Turkish  towels. 

As  J.  P.  remarked  once  to  his  closest  friend 
"there's  only  one  thing  you  can  ever  be  certain 
about  so  far  as  Fannie  is  concerned — she's  always 
sure  to  make  a  damned  fool  out  of  herself." 

And  J.  P.  spoke  by  the  book.    He  had  lived  with 

—  234  — 


Fresh  Every   Hour 

her  for  fifty  years  and  he  knew  whereof  he  spoke. 
He  was  always  prepared  for  anything  and  yet  he 
was  never  able  to  maintain  that  air  of  philosophic 
calm  with  which  he  would  have  liked  to  have 
greeted  each  new  ebullition  of  her  tempestuous 
temperament.  He  pictured  himself  sometimes,  in 
moments  of  reflection,  treating  her  with  cold  con- 
tempt and  silent  scorn,  but  when  each  new  issue 
arose  he  greeted  it  with  an  emotional  outburst 
which  was  utterly  futile  in  its  effect  on  her,  but 
which  gave  him  some  slight  measure  of  satisfac- 
tion. A  psychologist  would  have  told  him  that  his 
affection  for  his  sister  found  expression  in  that  way* 
We  can  never  be  coldly  contemptuous  of  those  we 
love.  However,  J.  P.  was  no  psychologist. 

The  festivities  in  the  other  corner  of  the  house 
lasted  until  nearly  six  o'clock  and  when  the  last 
guest  had  been  given  a  gushing  farewell  by  the 
arch  Miss  Fannie  the  hostess  bounced  into  the 
library  to  meet  her  brother.  She  was  attired  in  a 
short  skirted  pink  silk  afternoon  gown  that  looked 
as  if  it  might  have  been  designed  for  a  sixteen 
year  old  high  school  student,  and  she  flounced  into 
a  sofa  with  an  assumption  of  girlish  ingenuousness 
that  was  really  pathetic  to  watch. 

"I've  just  had  the  darlingest  afternoon,  brother 
dear,"  she  said  gayly,  not  heeding  the  glowering 
aspect  of  the  head  of  the  house,  who  stood  facing 
her  with  his  hands  in  his  trousers  pockets.  "We've 
had  the  spirit  and  the  mystery  of  the  great,  in- 
scrutable East  with  us  and  it's  been  so  uplifting  and 

—  235  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

so  perfectly  wonderful  that  I'm  in  a  daze.  I'm  sorry 
you  didn't  meet  the  dear  prince,  brother  dear.  He's 
so  charmingly  soulful  and  his  eyes — well,  they're 
just  deep  pools  of  moonlight  as  some  poet  said. 
I'm  giving  a  dinner  for  him  on  Friday  night.  You'll 
have  to  come  to  that,  of  course." 

Junius  P.  Easton  tossed  back  his  head  and 
erupted. 

"I'll  be  damned  if  I  will,"  he  shouted,  "and  I'll 
be  damned  if  I'm  going  to  let  you  hob-nob  with  this 
fellow  either.  I've  stood  a  lot  from  you  Fannie,  but 
there's  a  limit.  I  didn't  put  up  much  of  a  holler 
last  winter  when  you  had  that  greasy  Esquimeaux 
here  that  evening  with  that  polar  explorer  and  I've 
stood  for  Japanese,  Chinese,  Hawaiians,  South  Sea 
Islanders,  snake  charmers,  Bolshevists,  shimmy 
dancers,  poets  and  short  haired  female  nuts,  but 
I'm  going  to  draw  the  line  on  darkies  and  don't  you 
forget  it." 

J.  P.  strode  over  to  a  long  table,  opened  a  humi- 
dor, extracted  another  cigar  and  savagely  bit  the 
end  of  it  off.  His  sister  was  as  unruffled  as  the 
placid  surface  of  a  mountain  lake  on  a  hot  mid- 
summer day.  She  laughed  a  little  before  replying. 
It  was  such  an  irritatingly  serene  sort  of  a  laugh 
that  J.  P.  winced  at  the  sound  of  it. 

"You  poor,  dear,  foolish  man,"  she  said  with  the 
patronizing  condescension  of  an  indulgent  aunt  re- 
buking a  fractious  boy  aged  about  eight  years. 
"He  isn't  a  colored  man.  You  can  be  perfectly 
ridiculous  at  times." 

—  236  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"Well,  he's  the  next  thing  to  it,  isn't  he?"  in- 
quired her  brother  helplessly. 

"Don't  be  absurd,  J.  P.  He  is  the  descendant 
of  kings  and  potentates  and  mighty  warriors  and 
he's  quite  the  most  fascinating  man  I've  ever  met. 
To  know  him  is  a  privilege.  He  calls  to  your  soul 
and  bids  you  voyage  with  him  to  the  heights 
where  you  can  leave  behind  you  the  petty  affairs 
of  life  and  commune  with  the  eternal  and  the  un- 
knowable." 

"Oh,  bunk,"  retorted  her  brother  testily.  "You 
give  me  a  pain.  The  heights,  eh?  If  you  take  a 
trip  up  there  you'd  better  be  sure  before  you  start 
that  you've  got  a  return  ticket.  You're  likely  to 
get  all  tangled  up  in  the  cosmos  and  the  eternal 
and  lose  your  way  as  well  as  your  mind.  And  take 
a  tip  from  me,  old  lady.  Choose  some  other  com- 
panion besides  that  coffee  colored  harem  keeper  if 
you  want  to  keep  your  friends." 

"My  dear  brother,"  returned  Miss  Fannie,  in  a 
perfectly  even  tone  of  voice.  "I  feel  extremely 
sorry  for  you.  You  are  of  the  earth  earthy.  You 
have  no  soul.  When  the  infinite  calls  you  cannot 
hear  it.  I,  fortunately,  am  so  attuned  and  delicately 
adjusted  that  it  reaches  me,  and  I  can  pulsate  in 
harmony  with  its  vibrations.  I  know  because  the 
dear  prince  told  me  so.  It's  just  wonderful." 

"Oh piffle,"  retorted  J.  P.  impotently  as  he 

threw  up  his  hands  in  a  gesture  of  hopeless  despair 
and  tore  angrily  out  of  the  room  with  the  bitter 
realization  that  he  had  once  more  suffered  defeat. 

—  237  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

Miss  Fannie  Easton  smiled  indulgently  and  fon- 
dled a  jade  ring-  on  her  left  hand,  a  ring  which 
Prince  Rajput  Singh  had  slipped  from  his  own  royal 
finger  and  given  her  with  the  whispered  expression 
of  a  hope  that  she  would  wear  it  as  a  token  of  their 
friendship.  Assuring  herself  that  no  one  was  look- 
ing she  kissed  it  long  and  ardently  as  something 
akin  to  a  rupturous  look  crept  into  her  foolish, 
lusterless  eyes. 


Chapter  Twenty-Eight 

Jimmy  Martin,  couchant  on  a  chaise  longue  in  the 
royal  suite  of  the  Congress  Hotel,  had  difficulty  in 
persuading  himself  that  he  was  wide  awake  and  in 
full  possession  of  all  his  senses.  Opposite  him  sat 
the  pseudo  prince  Rajput  Singh  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
looking  decidedly  unromantic.  The  East  Indian  was 
talking  rapidly  and  the  inner  import  of  the  tale  he 
was  unfolding  was  of  such  a  nature  that  Jimmy 
was  aquiver  with  eager  curiosity  and  aglow  with 
anticipatory  delight.  He  did  not  notice  that  the 
other's  eyes  glinted  unpleasantly  as  he  spoke  and 
that  there  was  something  positively  repulsive  about 
the  smugly  complacent  manner  in  which  he  detailed 
the  progress  of  his  love  affair  with  the  wealthy 
sister  of  Junius  P.  Easton.  All  Jimmy  could  think 
of  at  the  moment  were  the  tremendous  publicity 
possibilities  inherent  in  the  culmination  of  this  in- 
congruous romance. 

"As  you  see,  she  is  very  much  head  over  heels 
with  me,"  said  the  prince,  smiling  mockingly,  "is 
that  foolish  lady  with  the  yellow  hair.  I  have  made 
a  most  successful  attack  on  her  young  affections, 
eh,  Mr.  Martin?  Is  it  not  so?  I  have  but  to  bend 
my  small  finger  and  she  will  do  what  I  ask.  I  have 
not  made  myself  waste  any  time.  Do  you  think  I 
have,  Mr.  Martin?" 

—  239  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"Say,"  said  Jimmy  enthusiastically,  as  he  rose  to 
a  sitting  posture,  "you're  the  quickest  worker  I 
ever  saw  in  action.  A  glance  of  the  eye  and  a  twist 
of  the  wrist  and  they're  ready  to  break  the  old  home 
ties  and  kiss  the  pet  canary  good-bye.  You've  cer- 
tainly got  winnin'  ways.  There's  no  use  in  denyin' 
that.  When'd  you  see  her  last?" 

"This  afternoon  I  swear  my  undying  love  for 
this  lovely  lady  in  quiet  corner  of  her  drawing 
room.  We  have  made  exchange  of  rings.  How 
much  you  think  this  one  is  worth,  eh,  Mr.  Martin?" 

The  fictitious  heir  to  the  throne  of  Hydrabad 
reached  into  the  pocket  of  his  waistcoat  and  took 
therefrom  a  diamond  ring  which  flashed  brilliantly 
as  he  handed  it  to  the  press  agent.  Jimmy  exam- 
ined it  critically. 

"Oh,"  said  he  carelessly,  "this  is  just  a  gaudy 
little  trinket  that  isn't  worth  more  than  about  fif- 
teen hundred  dollars  or  so.  I've  got  to  give  you 
credit.  You're  immense.  Where  do  we  go  from 
here?" 

Prince  Rajput  Singh  looked  puzzled. 

"I  do  not  mean  to  go,"  he  said.  "I  mean  to  stay 
for  a  little  while." 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  said  Jimmy.  "You  don't 
understand.  What  I  mean  is — what's  the  next 
move  ?  You  said  somethin'  a  little  while  ago  about 
the  double  harness  stuff — about  marryin*  this  old 
gal,  I  mean.  When  are  we  goin'  to  pull  the  finale?" 

"Whenever  we  wish,  Mr.  Martin.     I  have,  as  I 
say,  but  to  bend  my  small  finger.     It  will  make  a. 
—  240  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

nice  publication  for  you  in  the  journals,  will  it  not?" 

"You  said  somethin'  that  time,  old  Frank  J.  Bom- 
bay," returned  Jimmy  who  was  now  in  the  grip  of 
one  of  his  moods  of  exultant  exurberance.  "This 
one'll  land  in  places  where  press  agents  fear  to 
tread.  They'd  stop  the  presses  for  it,  if  necessary, 
and  miss  the  mails.  They'd  leave  out  ads  for  it. 
And  when  it's  all  over  you've  got  to  do  me  a  favor. 
You've  got  to  keep  on  with  your  tour  and  take  Mrs. 
Princess  Rajput  Singh  along  with  you  as  a  bally- 
hoo. Why,  say,  we'll  land  so  much  stuff  in  every 
town  that  the  agent  of  every  other  outfit'll  just 
naturally  pack  up  and  move  on  to  the  next  stand 
without  even  leavin'  a  forwardin'  address." 

Jimmy's  swarthy  friend  nodded  in  response  to 
this  enthusiastic  outburst.  Then  he  narrowed  his 
eyes  and  the  mean,  sordid  soul  of  him  peered 
through  them  as  he  spoke. 

"This  Mrs.  Princess,  as  you  call  her,  that  is  to 
be,"  he  inquired  cautiously,  "has  really  much  money 
in  her  own  name?  I  have  asked  many  questions 
from  others  and  I  find  general  opinion  that  she 
has.  Do  you  know?" 

"Just  a  few  millions,  that's  all,"  responded 
Jimmy  nonchalantly.  "Just  about  five  or  six  or 
somethin'  like  that.  Father  left  it  to  her.  You're 
in  softer  than  you  realize,  you  old  Hindu  son-of-a- 
gun,  you,  and  you've  got  to  go  along  on  this  honey- 
moon trip  I'm  plannin'.  You  owe  a  whole  lot  to 
yours  truly,  Mister  Man.  If  it  wasn't  for  me  you'd 
|bejnakiV  six  changes  of  costume  a  night  for  twen- 
—  241  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

ty-five  bones  a  week.  Don't  forget  to  remember 
that." 

"Of  course  I  am  very  much  thankful  to  you,  my 
fine,  good  friend,  most  thankful  and  most  very 
much  in  favor  of  your  honeymoon  plan." 

Jimmy  arrogated  to  himself  the  task  of  arrang- 
ing the  details  of  the  projected  marriage.  He  fixed 
upon  an  elopement  to  a  nearby  suburb  as  being  the 
best  method  of  giving  the  affair  a  news  slant  that 
would  add  to  the  story  what  are  technically  known 
in  newspaper  circles  as  "feature  values."  It  would 
also,  he  figured,  prevent  the  possibility  of  any  last 
minute  interference  by  some  trouble-making  rela- 
tive. 

It  was  agreed  that  he  was  to  meet  the  prospective 
bride  on  the  morrow  in  the  guise  of  a  close  friend 
of  Prince  Rajput  Singh  and  was  to  go  over  with 
both  parties  a  detailed  plan  of  campaign  which  he 
was  to  map  out  in  the  interim.  The  prince  was  to 
bend  his  small  finger  and  announce  that  impetuous 
and  headlong  haste  was  absolutely  essential  to  his 
peace  of  soul  and  was  to  insist  upon  the  ceremony 
being  performed  within  twenty-four  hours. 

When  Wilkins,  the  assistant  manager,  met  Jimmy 
in  the  lobby  a  few  minutes  after  the  latter  had  left 
the  royal  suite,  he  couldn't  help  noticing  the  wild 
exultant  light  that  shone  in  the  press  agent's  eyes. 

"Well,  well,"  he  remarked  cordially,  "you  look 
as  if  you'd  just  made  a  clean-up  or  something, 
can't  you  let  me  in  on  the  good  news." 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"Not  for  about  forty-eight  hours,"  returned 
Jimmy,  "and  then  I'm  goin'  to  let  the  whole  U.  S. 
A.  in  on  it  at  the  same  time.  I've  got  somethin' 
on  the  fire  that's  just  about  ready  to  serve  that'll 
make  folks  everywhere  forget  to  eat  their  'ham 
and'  one  of  these  mornin's." 


Jimmy  permitted  Prince  Rajput  Singh  to  pro- 
ceed him  by  half  an  hour  to  the  Easton  home  on 
the  following  morning.  He  thought  it  would  be 
better  to  have  the  blushing  bride-to-be  apprised 
of  the  rough  outlines  of  the  elopment  plan  without 
the  disconcerting  presence  of  an  intruder.  Mr.  J. 
Herbert  Denby,  a  little  disturbed  and  flustered  at 
being  assigned  to  such  a  task,  was  even  then  arang- 
ing  with  a  clergyman  in  the  next  county  to  preside 
at  the  marriage  which  was  to  take  place  in  the  par- 
lor of  the  rectory  and  all  the  other  essential  details 
had  been  carefully  worked  out. 

Jimmy  had  collaborated  with  the  prince  on  a  tele- 
gram which  was  to  be  sent  by  the  bridegroom  to 
Junius  P.  Easton  immediately  after  the  ceremony. 
It  would,  he  felt,  give  an  added  touch  of  the  pic- 
turesque to  the  proposed  program  of  events :  "Your 
sister  has  done  me  the  high  honor  of  becoming  my 
princess,"  it  read,  "and  all  Hydrabad  will  kneel 
in  proud  homage  at  her  feet.  I  have  cabled  my 
revered  father  for  his  august  blessing.  May  we 
not  hope  that  you  will  shower  your  honorable  good 
wishes  on  us." 

—  243  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

The  prince  and  Miss  Fannie  were  in  the  music 
room  when  Jimmy  was  announced.  She  had  just 
been  singing  "Drink  to  Me  Only  With  Thine  Eyes" 
to  her  own  accompaniment  on  the  piano  and  she 
was  as  radiant  as  a  June  morning.  She  wore  a  tea 
gown  of  baby  blue,  embroidered  with  pink  rose- 
buds, and  her  bleached  hair  was  done  up  into  a  bil- 
lowy cluster  of  tiny  curls  which  swayed  with  every 
movement  of  her  head  and  which  somehow  accen- 
tuated the  essential  maturity  of  her  foolish  fat  face. 
Jimmy  gave  an  almost  audible  gasp  when  he  crossed 
the  threshold  of  the  door.  He  was  prepared  for  the 
worst,  but  he  had  not  expected  to  find  himself  face 
to  face  with  a  being  out  of  the  comic  supplement. 
She  ran  to  meet  him,  laughing  sillily. 

"How  do  you  do,"  she  said  gayly,  extending  a 
pudgy  hand.  "It  isn't  necessary  for  the  dear  prince 
to  introduce  you.  He's  told  me  all  about  you  and 
I  know  that  we're  going  to  be  kindred  souls.  You 
must  vibrate  on  our  plane,  you  know.  I'm  certain 
you  must  because  you  are  his  friend  and  one's 
friends  always  vibrate  on  one's  plane.  Don't  they, 
Raijy,  dear?" 

"Of  course,  my  jasmine  bud,"  replied  the  prince 
from  the  sheltered  embrace  of  a  huge  arm  chair. 
"Mr.  Martin  is  of  our  inner  circle.  He  shares  the 
secrets  of  our  hearts,  sweet  lily.  He  is  my  coun- 
cilor and  chosen  guide.  Let  us  bid  him  sup  coffee 
with  us  which  you  will  pour  with  your  much-to-be 
adored  hands." 

Jimmy  cast  a  roving  eye  in  the  general  direction 
—  244  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

of  his  dark-skinned  fellow  conspirator  and  was 
greeted  by  the  latter  with  an  expressive  wink, 
which  was  not  visible  to  Miss  Fannie,  who  was 
bustling  about  a  silver  tray  on  which  was  a  pot  of 
steaming  coffee.  She  poured  and  served  it  with  a 
fluttering  air  of  heavy  coquetry  which  irritated  the 
press  agent  beyond  measure  and  which  made  him 
feel  decidedly  uncomfortable.  She  was  such  a  sim- 
ple, trusting,  foolish  soul  that  he  didn't  have  the 
heart  to  enlarge  upon  the  merits  of  the  bridegroom- 
to-be  in  the  expansive  and  flowery  fashion  he  had 
decided  upon  on  the  way  from  the  hotel.  He  re- 
mained strangely  silent  for  a  time  listening  to  an 
exchange  of  preposterous  love  words  between  this 
oddly  assorted  and  incongruous  pair  and  wishing 
himself  a  long  distance  away. 

"And  when  shall  we  visit  dear  Hydrabad,  Rajjy?" 
Miss  Easton  was  saying.  "I  can  see  myself  under 
a  silken  awning  by  the  shores  of  the  little  lake  you 
spoke  of — the  lake  by  your  summer  palace  I  mean, 
and  I  can  see  you  beside  me  and  the  native  servants 
are  salaaming  and  serving  us  with  a  wonderful 
feast.  We  must  go  there  at  once,  Rajjy  dear,  at 
once.  My  soul  cries  out  for  the  sound  of  those 
'tinkly  temple  bells'  that  Kipling  wrote  about.  It 
just  cries  out  for  them. 

Prince  Rajput  Singh  stirred  uneasily  in  his 
chair  and  leaned  forward. 

"In  time,  sweet  nightingale,"  he  said  suavely.  "I 
must  make  a  continuation  of  my  lectures  and  then 
I  must  visit  your  wonderful  California.  It  will 

—  245  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

please  me  to  be  your  honored  guest  at  your  home 
there.  Then,  when  we  have  tired  of  the  sunshine 
and  the  flowers  we  shall  make  long  journey  to  my 
home-land.  The  spell  of  this  new  country  is  on  me 
and  until  it  passes  I  must  remain  here.  Besides,  I 
must  await  a  salutation  from  my  father.  That 
breach  must  be  healed,  fair  bul-bul." 

Miss  Fannie  sighed  resignedly. 
Whatever  you  say,  Rajjy  dear,"  she  said.  "You 
shall  stay  in  California  as  long  as  you  wish  and  I'll 
write  to  that  father  of  yours  if  you  don't  hear  from 
him.  I  think  it's  terrible  the  way  the  Nazir  is  treat- 
ing the  prince,  don't  you,  Mr.  Martin?" 

The  bridegroom-to-be  coughed  nervously  .and 
rose  quickly  from  his  chair,  breaking  into  the  con- 
versation before  Jimmy  could  stammer  a  reply. 

"Fair  one,"  he  said,  gripping  her  by  the  arm,  "my 
friend  tires  of  these  much  repeated  references  to 
my  own  poor  self.  We  have  more  important  mat- 
ters to  discuss.  Let  us  make  busy  with  them." 

Thus  pressed,  Jimmy  enlarged  upon  the  detailed 
arrangements  which  he  had  completed  for  the  ex- 
citing events  of  the  following  day,  arrangements 
which  included  provisions  for  everything  from  the 
marriage  license  to  the  formal  and  ceremonious 
delivery  to  all  the  newspaper  offices  of  elaborately 
engraved  announcement  cards  by  the  Hindu  attend- 
ants of  Prince  Rajput  Singh.  Miss  Fannie  gushed 
her  approval  of  the  program  and  was  positively 
gurgling  with  delight  as  she  escorted  him  to  the 
door. 

—  246  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"The  prince  is  so  proud,"  she  said,  when  she  was 
out  of  ear-shot  of  that  dignitary,  "that  he  can't 
bear  to  have  me  say  anything  about  the  perfectly 
outrageous  way  in  which  he  has  been  treated  by 
his  father.  I  think  it's  perfectly  scandalous,  don't 
you?" 

"I'm  not  very  clear  about  it  myself,"  returned  the 
press  agent  guardedly.  "What'd  the  old  gink — I 
mean  the  old  man  do?" 

"Oh,  dear,  I  thought  you  knew.  Why,  he  cut  off 
his  allowance  for  a  perfectly  trivial  something  or 
other — he's  never  told  me  exactly — and  here  he  was 
on  the  verge  of  being  unable  to  keep  up  appear- 
ances and  the  dignity  of  his  station.  It  must  have 
been  most  humiliating.  Poor  Rajjy  cried  when  I 
forced  it  out  of  him.  He'd  been  so  depressed  that 
I  knew  something  must  be  the  matter,  and  I  just 
made  him  tell  me.  I  was  so  glad  to  help." 

Jimmy  cocked  his  head  at  the  last  sentence  and 
looked  up  at  her  quickly. 

"So  you  helped  him,  eh?"  he  inquired. 

"Just  a  little,"  she  replied.  "What  are  a  few 
thousand  dollars  if  they  will  bring  peace  to  a 
troubled  spirit?  Pea.ce  is  everything,  Mr.  Martin, 
quite  everything  worth  while.  And  I'm  going  to 
keep  the  poor,  dear  prince  peaceful  for  ever  and 
always  and  aye.  Good-bye,  dear  Mr.  Martin.  I'll 
see  you  in  the  morning." 

Jimmy  went  down  the  gravel  path  in  a  thought- 
ful mood.  Somehow  he  felt  rather  fed  up  with 
Prince  Rajput  Singh. 

—  247  — 


Chapter  Twenty -Nine 

Mr.  J.  Herbert  Denby,  between  sips  of  his  morn- 
ing coffee  next  day  in  a  secluded  corner  of  the 
breakfast  room  of  his  hotel,  was  reading  for  the 
second  time,  with  an  inner  glow  of  satisfaction,  a 
letter  which  he  had  just  received.  It  was  a  brief 
communication  from  Chester  Bartlett  compliment- 
ing him  upon  his  success  as  a  lecturer  and  announc- 
ing the  manager's  forthcoming  arrival  in  Chicago 
that  very  rrDorning. 

"I  can't  resist  the  temptation,"  Bartlett  wrote, 
"to  look  in  on  one  of  your  seances  and  catch  His 
Royal  Highness  and  yourself  in  action.  I  must  con- 
gratulate you  on  the  success  which  you  have 
achieved  in  putting  this  stunt  over  on  the  natives 
and  I  have  instructed  the  office  to  give  you  a 
twenty-five  per  cent  increase  in  salary." 

Mr.  Denby  laid  the  letter  down  and  decided  that, 
after  all,  theatrical  managers  had  their  proper  place 
in  the  scheme  of  existence.  Up  to  that  moment  he 
had  always  been  inclined  to  consider  them  as  use- 
less encumberers  of  the  earth. 

He  picked  up  the  morning  paper  which  lay  at  his 
elbow,  adjusted  his  glasses  and  turned  to  the  front 
page.  He  glanced  cursorily  at  a  story  in  the  left- 
hand  column  dealing  with  the  newest  series'  of 
what  are  technically  known  in  newspaper  circles  as 
"Red  Raids ;"  let  his  attention  wander  to  an  ac- 
count of  the  launching  of  a  new  presidential  boom 
—  248  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

and  then  took  a  look  at  the  right  hand  corner.  What 
he  saw  emblazoned  there  caused  him  to  almost  drop 
the  cup  which  he  had  just  daintily  raised  to  his  lips 
and  provoked  an  audible  spluttering  that  sent  the 
head-waiter  hurrying  in  his  direction  from  the  other 
side  of  the  room. 

"Anything  wrong,  sir?"  deferentially,  inquired 
the  chief  servitor,  noting  with  apprehension  the 
startled  mien  of  the  eminent  lecturer. 

Mr.  Denby  tried  to  compose  himself. 

"Nothing  important,"  he  managed  to  reply.  "Just 
some  unwelcome  tidings  from  home.  I'll  be  all 
right  in  a  moment  or  two." 

When  the  head-waiter  had  bowed  himself  away 
Mr.  Denby  turned  to  a  perusal  of  the  paper.  The 
words  which  struck  his  eyes  seemed  to  spell  to  him 
the  collapse  of  all  things  temporal. 

PRINCE  BAMBOOZLES 
SOCIETY;  RAJPUT  SINGH 
PROVED  RAM IMPOSTER 

Alleged  S  on  of  Nazir  of  H  y  drabad 
and  Glib  Tongued  Lecturer 
Associate  Revealed  as  Wily 
Promoters  of  Publicity  for 
Theatrical  Enterprise. 


FAKIRS  ALMOST  GOT 

AWAY  WITH  IT 

—  249  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

The  harrowing  details  which  followed  were 
dressed  up  in  such  sarcastic  verbiage  that  Mr. 
Denby's  soul  went  sick  and  his  appetite  for  break- 
fast vanished.  He  paid  his  check  and  sought  the 
seclusion  of  his  room.  He  wished  to  hide  his  face 
from  the  public  gaze  and  apply  poultices  to  his 
wounded  dignity. 

Jimmy  Martin,  coming  up  unannounced,  found 
him  a  half  hour  later  gazing  pensively  out  of  the 
window — a  picture  of  incarnate  misery.  Jimmy 
wasn't  in  a  particularly  jaunty  mood  himself,  but 
he  assumed  his  best  "cheery-oh"  manner  when  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  his  associate's  face. 

"What's  the  matter,  little  song-bird?"  he  inquired 
breezily.  "You  look  about  as  lonely  as  a  bartender." 

Mr.  Denby  turned  a  pair  of  ineffably  sad  eyes  on 
the  press  agent  and  sighed  mournfully. 

"I'm  disgraced,  Mr.  Martin,"  he  said  feebly,  "ir- 
retrievably disgraced.  I  should  never  have  gone 
into  this  masquerade — never.  My  saner  judgment 
should  have  prevailed.  I  shall  never  recover  from 
this.  I'm  the  most  miserable  man  in  Chicago  this 
morning — the  most  utterly  miserable." 

"You've  got  another  think  coming,  old  popsy- 
wop,"  replied  Jimmy.  "I've  just  seen  his  royal 
highness.  You're  a  care-free  babe  in  arms  com- 
pared to  that  bird.  He's  passin'  on  to  New  York 
on  the  twelve  forty." 

"What  I  can't  understand,"  said  Mr.  Denby,  "is 
how  the  story  got  out.     Have  you  any  idea?" 
—  250  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

"Yes,  I  have,"  replied  the  press  agent,  slowly. 
"As  a  matter  of  fact  I  gave  it  out  myself." 

"You  gave  it  out  yourself,"  stammered  the  be- 
wildered Mr.  Denby.  "I— I  don't  understand.  Why 
did  you  do  such  a  thing  as  that?" 

"Well,  the  low-down  of  it  is  that  I  had  to.  I  was 
out  to  that  Easton  dame's  house  yesterday  after- 
noon with  his  royal  jiblets  and  when  I  saw  the  way 
the  poor  nut  was  makin'  a  fool  out  of  herself  over 
that  little  brown  brother  it  just  made  me  sick.  He'd 
been  milkin'  her  for  thousands  and  I  could  see  he 
was  layin'  lines  to  wish  himself  into  an  easy  life  at 
her  expense.  She's  a  good-natured  old  gal,  too,  but 
she'd  fallen  for  him  so  hard  that  she'd  have  believed 
him  if  he  told  her  he  was  that  Buddha  party  come 
back  to  earth  for  a  little  holiday. 

"She  told  me  about  some  fairy  tale  or  other  he'd 
pulled — something  about  a  row  with  (his  father  and 
how  his  allowance  had  been  stopped  and  so  forth 
and  so  on  and  when  I  took  one  last  look  at  her  at 
the  front  door  and  thought  of  that  baby  lollin* 
around  on  sofas  and  lettin*  her  wait  on  him  and 
callin'  her  a  lot  of  flossy  names  so's  to  keep  his 
stock  up  I  didn't  have  the  heart  to  let  her  go 
through  with  the  marriage  thing,  story  or  no  story. 
Somethin*  sort  of  caught  hold  of  me  and  wouldn't 
let  me  go  on.  I  wonder  what  it  was?" 

"Some  philosophers  call  it  the  categorical  im- 
perative," replied  Mr.  Denby,  thoughtfully. 

"They  do,  eh?  Well,  maybe  that's  a  good  name 
for  it,  but  I've  got  a  kind  of  a  hunch  that  it  was 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

the  little  old  Golden  Rule  that  made  me  ashamed 
of  myself.  I  thought  the  best  of  cramp  Rajjy's 
style  would  be  to  get  word  to  that  brother  of  the 
blushin'  bride  so  I  got  in  to  see  him  last  night  and 
coughed  up  everything.  He's  a  fine  fellow.  They 
don't  grow  'em  better.  He  was  mighty  grateful, 
but  he  said  it  wouldn't  do  any  good  for  him  to 
say  anything  to  her.  He  figured  that  would  make 
it  worse.  He  said  she  wouldn't  believe  him.  The 
only  thing  that'd  get  to  her,  he  said,  would  be  to 
have  some  paper  expose  his  royal  job-lots  and  make 
him  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  all  her  friends. 

"So  I  came  down  town  and  slipped  an  ear-full  to 
Cunningham,  a  friend  of  mine  on  the  Times,  and 
he  did  the  rest.  I'm  sorry,  old  boy,  but  I  just 
couldn't  help  it.  It'd  a  been  one  of  the  best  stories 
ever  put  over  if  we'd  let  it  go  through  and  it  puts 
the  kibosh  on  the  lecture  tour,  but  there  just 
naturally  wasn't  anythin'  else  to  do.  Women  and 
children  first,  as  they  say  when  the  ship  hits  an 
iceberg.  Am  I  right?" 

Mr.  Denby  sprang  up  and  grasped  Jimmy  by  the 
hand. 

"You  certainly  are,"  he  said  enthusiastically.  "I 
feel  better  already.  I'm  sure  Mr.  Bartlett  will 
understand.  Did  you  know  he  was  coming  to  town 
today?" 

"I  did  not,"  returned  Jimmy.  "That's  a  good 
exit  cue,  though.  I  haven't  the  nerve  to  face  him 
until  this  thing  kind  of  blows  over.  I'll  duck  under 
cover  for  twenty-four  hours  and  let  you  break  the 


'Fresh  Every  Hour 

news  to  mother.     Slip  him   the   real  inside   stuff. 
Maybe  he'll  fall  for  it." 

Chester  Bartlett  was  the  maddest  man  in  the 
entire  state  of  Illinois  when  he  read  the  story  of 
the  expose  on  the  incoming  train  to  Chicago  that 
morning  and  the  quips  which  were  hurled  at  him 
by  dozens  of  his  friends  in  his  club  at  luncheon  gave 
substance  and  solidity  to  his  rage.  His  interview 
with  Mr.  Denby  was  a  stormy  affair  and  his  re- 
action to  what  Jimmy  termed  the  "real  inside  stuff" 
was  violent  in  the  extreme.  While  still  in  the  throes 
of  his  anger  he  wrote  a  brief  message  to  the  press 
agent  which  the  erstwhile  lecturer  on  far  eastern 
affairs  was  requested  to  deliver  in  person  to  his 
friend. 

Mr.  Denby  found  Jimmy  at  his  hotel  immersed 
in  the  preparation  of  advertising  copy.  He  looked 
up  hopefully.  Mr.  Denby  handed  him  the  note  in 
silence  and  he  tore  it  open  with  a  foreboding  of 
disaster. 

"No  man  can  make  me  ridiculous  and  remain  in 
my  employ,"  it  ran.  "You're  through  the  moment 
you  receive  this.  You  should  never  have  encour- 
aged such  an  affair  as  the  romance  Denby  tells  me 
about.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  a  foolhardy 
thing  to  try  and  palm  that  fellow  off  as  a  prince. 
You  might  have  known  you'd  come  a  cropper 
sooner  or  later.  You've  got  too  many  ideas  for 
your  own  good  and  I'll  be  satisfied  to  go  along 
hereafter  with  someone  who's  perhaps  a  little  shy 

—  253  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

on  brilliancy,  but  who's  long  on  balance." 

"Can  you  beat  'em,"  inquired  Jimmy,  helplessly. 
"They're  all  alike.  No  matter  what  you  do  you're 
always  in  wrong." 

The  telephone  bell  rang  just  then  and  he  barked  a 
rude  "hello"  into  the  transmitter.  The  voice  at  the 
other  end  was  hearty  and  good-natured. 

"Is  that  Mr.  Martin — Mr.  James  T.  Martin? — 
this  is  Easton  talking — Easton — Junius  P.  Easton 
— thought  I'd  let  you  know  that  my  sister  is  cured 
— can't  begin  to  thank  you  for  what  you  did — tried 
to  reciprocate  this  morning — told  my  brokers  to 
carry  a  thousand  shares  of  Consolidated  Gutta 
Percha  in  your  name — closed  out  at  a  quarter  to 
three — ten  point  rise — you'll  get  the  check  in  the 
morning — had  a  little  inside  information,  you  know 
— did  pretty  well  myself,  too — say,  you  impress  me 
as  being  a  pretty  clever  sort  of  a  lad — ever  think 
of  going  into  business  on  your  own? — it's  the  only 
game — why  work  for  anyone  ? — think  it  over." 

Jimmy  was  still  mumbling  his  thanks  when  the 
other  excused  himself  and  hung  up  Mr.  Denby, 
who  hadn't  grasped  the  import  of  the  telephonic 
conversation,  betrayed  an  intense  interest  in  the 
proceedings. 

"What's  up?"  he  questioned. 

"Consolidated  Gutta  Percha,"  replied  Jimmy. 
"Want  a  job?" 

"You  know  I  do.    Who  with  ?" 
"Why  with  me,  of  course,  you  old  highbrow.  And 
look  here.    Don't  you  go  palmin*  off  any  fake  dukes 
—  254  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

or  rajahs  or  anythin'  like  that.  If  you  do  you'll 
get  the  bum's  rush  and  I  won't  take  the  trouble  to 
write  you  a  letter  about  it,  either." 

Mr.  Denby  raised  a  deprecatory  hand. 

"I'll  promise  to  be  good,"  he  said,  "but  may  I  be 
permitted  to  ask  another  question?" 

"Shoot — while  the  shootin's  good." 

"Well,  then,  in  the  parlance  of  the  theatrical  pro- 
fession— with  which,  I  take  it,  we  are  still  to  be 
identified — 'where  do  we  go  from  here  ?' " 

Jimmy  pulled  a  pink  letter  out  of  an  inside 
pocket  and  proffered  it  to  his  friend  with  a  flourish. 

"Cedar  Rapids  is  our  next  stand,  you  old  ad- 
jective hound,"  he  said  heartily.  "Take  a  look  at 
this  little  message." 

It  was,  Mr.  Denby  found,  a  note  from  Lolita 
Murphy  and  it  contained  a  contrite  plea  for  for- 
giveness for  her  abrupt  departure  from  Boston 
many  weeks  before  and  a  hope  that  the  diplomatic 
relations  then  severed  might  be  renewed. 

"Old  Mr.  Higgins,"  she  wrote,  "wants  someone 
to  take  the  lease  of  the  Opera  House  off  his  hands. 
He's  had  a  cataract  on  his  left  eye  for  two  years, 
and  now  he's  got  rheumatism  in  his  right  hip  and 
he  wants  to  go  out  to  California.  He's  been  doing 
great  business  this  season  and  on  the  nights  when 
he  hasn't  had  regular  shows  he's  been  putting  on 
big  extra  special  feature  films  and  packing  people 
in.  I  thought  maybe  you'd  like  to  try  your  hand  at 
settling  down  and  running  a  theatre.  Of  course, 
Main  Street  isn't  Broadway,  but  I  like  it  lots  bet- 
—  255  — 


Fresh  Every  Hour 

ter  and  maybe  you  could  learn  to,  too.  It  means 
home  folks  to  me.  Maybe  it  might  come  to  mean 
the  same  thing  to  you — some  time." 

Mr.  Denby  gasped  when  he  read  this.  When  he 
tried  to  talk  the  words  did  not  come  trippingly.. . 

"You  mean  you're  going  to— to — run  the  opera 
house  in  Cedar  Rapids?" 

Jimmy  grabbed  him  by  the  shoulders  and  shook 
him  in  an  outburst  of  fierce  joviality. 

"I  mean  that  we're  going  to  run  it,"  he  said.  "All 
three  of  us.  What  do  you  think  about  smearing 
a  catch-line  all  over  town  —  'A  Homey  Theatre  for 
Home  Folks'?  I've  got  an  idea  that'd  make  a  hit 
with  a  Certain  Party." 


THE  END 


—  256  — 


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